“Excuse me,” a woman with gray hair and a purple housecoat said from one of the far tables. “Is there something we can help you with, Detectives?”
Detective Murphy glanced at his partner and said, “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“I’m Miss Marple,” the woman said, slightly affronted. “I’m a consulting detective.”
“Amateur,” a man dressed as Sherlock Holmes coughed into his hand. The woman ignored the comment, keeping her eyes on Detective Murphy.
“Okay, Miss Marple,” Detective Murphy said, “there’s been a suspicious death of one of your group, and we’re here to ask you a few questions.”
A wave of expectant murmurs rippled through the room, and all eyes turned to him.
“Have you determined the cause of death?” the woman asked.
“The coroner is on his way, but it appears Bill Hartman was involved in some kind of struggle and ended up dead at the bottom of the stairs.”
A loud pinging sound rang through the room as several attendees began tapping anxiously on the round desk bells on the tables in front of them.
“They ring the bells when you break character,” Mr. Adams murmured from behind him. “You just got a demerit for using Bill’s real name.”
Detective Murphy sighed. “Look, we’re not part of your convention. We’re real detectives, and we’re investigating the death of Bill Hartman.”
The bells began ringing before he could finish talking.
Detective Sullivan hid a smile behind her hand and shrugged at her partner.
“Stop with the bells, okay?” Detective Murphy said. “Now, who here knew Bill?”
More bells rang in response to his question.
“Wow, if you were playing the game with them you might as well go home,” Detective Sullivan said quietly.
A man in a trench coat stood up from one of the tables. “I know Bucket. Guy’s a real jerk.”
“And you are?” Detective Murphy asked, relieved at last someone was talking.
“Sam Spade,” the man replied.
“Wait, Sam Spade?”
“That’s right. Like I said, Bucket was a real piece of work,” the man said, tipping his fedora back farther on his head and squinting at the detectives.
“What do you mean, sir?” Detective Sullivan asked.
“You know the type,” the man said, “always has to be the smartest guy in the room.”
“Sounds like you didn’t like Mr. Hartman,” Detective Murphy said. “Did he blog about your stupid theories on his website?” Bells pinged back at him from around the room. “It’s enough already with the bells,” he said, failing to hide his exasperation.
“Yeah, that’s right. It didn’t make him a popular guy. So what?”
“So maybe you hated him enough to knock him over the head and grab the Maltese trophy,” Detective Murphy said, taking a step closer to the man.
“What do you mean, the Maltese Falcon is missing?” another man in a Sam Spade outfit stood up and asked loudly. The room erupted with excited conversation.
“It’s not in his room, and it’s not with the body,” Detective Murphy said. “Maybe one of you wanted it so badly you decided to kill him for it.”
Several of the attendees were jotting notes down in little spiral notebooks, flipping the pages back and forth to review them.
“Maybe one of you couldn’t stand losing to him again this weekend, and decided to take matters into your own hands,” Detective Sullivan said, moving to stand next to her partner.
“Pfft,” the second Sam Spade said. “Mulder and Scully here have a theory.” Bells pinged in response. He gave an irritated wave and huffily sat back down in his chair.
“What’s his problem?” Detective Murphy asked Mrs. Adams.
“Mulder and Scully?” she whispered. “Sam Spade doesn’t know who they are. He just got a demerit.”
Just then the door to the library swung open and a young woman dressed in a maid’s uniform rushed in. “Help! There’s been a murder!” she yelled.
Detective Murphy turned toward her and put his hand on his gun. “Another one?”
Mrs. Adams patted his forearm and whispered, “This one is our crime, the staged one.”
Detective Murphy’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but the irritated expression remained on his face. A few of the attendees got to their feet.
“Now wait a minute,” Detective Murphy said. “Nobody is going anywhere.”
“You will step aside at once and let us investigate this matter.” A short man with dark black hair and waxed mustache stepped to the front of the room. He limped between the tables holding an ornate walking stick in his clenched fist.
“Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to stay in your seat,” Detective Murphy said, moving to block the man from the doorway. A few of the attendees sat back down, unsure how to respond.
“Step away from the door. I, Hercule Poirot, am not amused.” The short man squared his shoulders and walked determinedly toward the maid who was waiting in the doorway with a worried look on her face.
“Will you tell them that the game is over? That we’re solving a real crime here?” Detective Murphy asked Mr. Adams. Bells rang around the room.
Mr. Adams shrugged his shoulders. “Those are the rules, Detective.”
Poirot paused to question the maid in the doorway, hitching his pant leg up. “Tell me what has happened,” he demanded.
“It’s the chef! He’s been poisoned!” the maid yelled loud enough for all of the guests to hear.
“Take me to him at once!” the man dressed as Poirot said. Several other attendees got to their feet and began to follow him.
“Hold on a minute,” Detective Murphy said, yelling over the excited murmurs of the crowd. “Everyone stop right now.”
They began to file past him, walking out into the hall to observe the crime scene.
“Hang on, Murphy,” Detective Sullivan said to him, putting a hand on his arm to quiet him. “Maybe they can help us.”
“You think this bunch can help us solve a murder? I hope you’re not going shopping for a Miss Marple outfit and signing up next year,” Murphy huffed at her. He stormed through the door, following the herd of detectives.
The group entered the kitchen and stood over a man in a white chef coat, lying on his back on the floor between the stove and the ovens. One of the Sherlock Holmes attendees went over to the large pot and smelled the simmering tomato soup.
“Nightshade,” he said, nodding. “It’s in the tomato family but has a bitter odor. Now why would the killer use an easily detectable poison like that? It must be to throw us off the real motive.”
“I can see his chest going up and down,” Detective Murphy said. “He’s still breathing.” Angry bells pinged behind him. “Fine, you guys go ahead and solve this fake crime. I’m going to find out which one of you killed Bill Hartman, and I’m going to nail you for it.”
He stormed out of the kitchen, bells ringing behind him.
The uniformed officer stood in the foyer, rocking back and forth on his boots, a bored look on his face.
“No CSU yet?” Detective Murphy said, blowing out a sigh.
“No, sir.”
Detective Sullivan came through the hallway and joined them. “The current theory is the chef killed himself while trying to disguise the poison in the soup. He tasted it too many times.”
“So he poisons the soup and then he wants to be sure it tastes okay? And what, he was going to kill all of them at once? What kind of theory is that?” Detective Murphy asked.
“I think they’re thinking he had one or two targets in mind and poisoning everyone at the same time would disguise his motive. But then he accidentally killed himself.”
“Yeah, well, if we went to the boss with something as half-baked as that he�
�d ask us to turn in our badges,” Detective Murphy said.
Detective Sullivan eyed the man on the floor. “What are you thinking with this one?”
“I think it was greed, pure and simple, and whoever has that Falcon trophy is our killer. Now we just have to find it.”
“What about his blog?” Detective Sullivan asked. “Maybe it was a crime of passion on the part of someone he publicly shamed, called stupid.”
Detective Murphy considered it. “Yeah, I can see that. But I still think finding the missing statue is the key.”
“Did you find anything interesting in his room?” Detective Sullivan asked.
“As a matter of fact, I found this.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved the plastic bag containing the iPhone. “It’s got a password on it, though.”
“Here, let me see,” she asked, taking the phone from him. She began typing numbers on the screen through the plastic bag.
“Don’t try too many times or you’ll get locked out,” Detective Murphy warned. “Wait, try one, eight, five, three.”
Detective Sullivan typed the numbers on the glass screen. “That worked. How did you know?”
“That’s the year Bleak House was published. He’s Inspector Bucket.”
“Hey, Murphy,” she said, holding the phone up for him to see, “look at this. The posting date on this blog entry is this morning.”
Detective Murphy took the phone from her and held it at arm’s length. “‘Witless Wonder Wows Again With Worthless Speculation At The GGD.’ Some headline.”
“Who is he calling out for being stupid this time?”
“It’s some guy named Parrot,” he said, squinting at the screen and scrolling down through the article.
“Parrot? Let me see,” Detective Sullivan said. He turned the screen toward her and she said, “Poirot. It’s French, I think. He only uses the detective name?”
“Yeah, no real names. He’s assigned his targets code names, I think,” Detective Murphy said, sighing again. “Do me a favor and Google this Poirot guy so we know what we’re dealing with. Maybe we can beat them at their own game.”
* * * *
Everyone had gathered back in the library, after much protest from the guests and urging from Mr. and Mrs. Adams. Detectives Murphy and Sullivan stood in the front of the room, eyeing the group of attendees.
“We’d like to question the Poirot who . . .” Detective Murphy said, and paused. He turned to Detective Sullivan and whispered, “Which one was it?”
“The one with the limp,” she murmured.
“All the Poirots were limping, weren’t they?” Detective Murphy asked under his breath.
“No, I only noticed two of them,” Detective Sullivan said, scanning the room. “One of them was the guy in the brownish suit over there.”
“Okay, you,” Detective Murphy said impatiently, waving the man forward. “Come here, please.”
The Poirot attendee made his way to the front of the room, limping quickly past several tables.
“How did you get that limp?” Detective Murphy asked.
“During the war,” the man answered in a forced accent.
Bells pinged around the room.
“Why the bells this time?” Detective Murphy asked.
Another man dressed as the detective stood up and offered, “Poirot was not in the war, and his limp is only mentioned early on, never in the later books. Demerit.” Several people nodded in agreement around him.
“Fine. Whatever,” Detective Murphy said. “Can I take a look at your walking stick, please?”
The man obliged, handing over his cane. Detective Murphy squinted at the silver ball at the top of the stick, looking for signs that it had been used to clock Bill Hartman on the forehead. A chair toppled over on the right side of the room with a loud bang and another Poirot limped quickly toward the door, grasping his walking stick tightly in his fist.
“Hold on a minute,” Detective Sullivan said, moving to block his way. “No one is leaving. Please go back to your seat.”
“No, I won’t,” the man spat. “You can’t keep me here unless I’m under arrest.”
Detective Murphy pulled the iPhone from his pocket, entered the passcode and held it up for the man to see, eyeing him up and down. The man fidgeted nervously and threw longing looks toward the exit. “I have a feeling you’ll be under arrest shortly. You’re the Poirot Bill Hartman called a dimwit, aren’t you?”
Bells pinged behind him, but he ignored them, focusing on the man’s response.
Poirot’s forehead was slick with sweat. “Sure, fine, he’s blogged about me lots of times. And I’m not sorry he’s dead, but I’m far from the only one. I’m not feeling well, so I’ll be going now if you don’t mind.”
“We do mind,” Detective Murphy said, squaring his shoulders. “You fell from the trellis after you attacked him, trying to rejoin the other guests in the garden without being noticed. That’s how you tore the cuff of your pants. Poirot would never walk around in torn trousers, it’s totally out of character,” Detective Murphy scoffed knowingly.
“You have no idea what I would do,” Poirot said arrogantly.
“That’s where you’re wrong. We looked it up. You decided to confront Bill Hartman upstairs, tell him what you really thought of him, right?” Detective Murphy urged.
Poirot wiped sweat from his thin black mustache. “I didn’t believe for a minute he forgot his notebook. I knew I’d catch him cheating up there. And I did. He was up there on his phone, taking notes.”
“So you attacked him because he was cheating?” Detective Murphy asked.
“No,” Poirot said, straightening his jacket. “I told him he was disqualified, that I was going to tell everyone he cheated. I told him he should pay back all of his winnings and surrender the Falcon. He was a fraud, finally exposed. He went berserk, started pushing me, threatening me. I hit him in self-defense.”
Detective Murphy nodded and said, “I think you went up there intending to hurt the man. This wasn’t about you exposing him for cheating. You were furious that he called you an idiot on his blog this morning, and you were looking for a little payback.”
Poirot’s face turned red, then purple. “I’m not an idiot!” he yelled. “Everyone knows that.” The room was deadly silent around them. “Hartman was the stupid one, as I proved.”
Detective Murphy eyed his walking stick. “That’s what you hit him with?”
Poirot scoffed. “No, I hit him with the thing he loved the most, the damn Falcon. It was right there on the desk, and I whacked him. That shut him up.”
Detective Sullivan pulled her handcuffs out. Poirot continued talking as she linked his hands behind his back. “And then he started yelling, saying he was going to sue me for hitting him. So I choked him. I choked the life out of that miserable jerk.”
A few muffled gasps escaped from the crowd.
“Come on, let’s go,” Detective Sullivan said, ushering him toward the door.
The detectives walked with him onto the front porch of the inn just as the coroner’s van was pulling into the driveway.
“One more thing. What did you do with the Falcon?” Detective Sullivan asked.
“I slipped it into the soup on the way back in from the garden. I figured out what the crime was going to be the minute they brought out that big pan, by the way. Poisoned soup, so obvious. I’m a good detective.”
Detective Murphy shook his head as he led him down the steps. “A good detective, maybe, but you’re a terrible criminal.”
AFTERWORD, by Max M. Houck, Ph.D., FRSC
Vice President, Forensic & Intelligence Services, LLC, St. Petersburg, FL
“HELLO, MY NAME IS PLOT”
plot /plät/ noun
1. A plan made in secret by a person or a group of people to do something illegal or harmfu
l.
2. The main events of a play, novel, movie, or similar work, devised and presented by the writer as an interrelated sequence.
Time “Runs” Forward
Take an egg from the refrigerator. Hold it over the floor. Now drop it. See those pieces of shell and the viscous splatter? All you need to know about detection and solving crimes is right there in one messy example.
Let me explain.
Physics, time, evidence, and history—all the information required to solve The Case of the Broken Egg is evident and irrefutable to anyone who did not witness the event. The crime is easy to solve because of the way the universe runs behind the scenes, so consistently and reliably that the rules are rarely considered. Yet every detective, every writer, every reader, every person uses these rules to answer questions all the time; some of those questions involve crimes and murder, most do not.
For writers, these factors are embodied in plot. Plot is the sequencing of motivation, actions, and resolution in a story. In crime fiction, it involves the transgression of personal and social norms (motivation and actions) and the return to some form of normal life (resolution) by the solving of the crime. Someone is wronged/jilted/jealous and decides to take revenge in the form of humiliation/theft/assault/murder, thinking this will put the axis of life back on a normal (if selfish) tilt. The actions of the “criminal”1 are central to plot and the factors running the universe make them so because of one irreducible feature: the actions are committed forward in time. Once committed, they are history and exist only in the past. The actions of the criminal are revealed out of order, however, to those in the present by the process of detection. Finally, the story of their revelation and reconstruction is told in forward time from a certain perspective using much, if not most, of the available information.2
Look at the egg. Look at it. It hit the floor (forward in time). How is that known? The pieces and the mess are there on the floor. In the commission of the crime, the breaking of the egg came last in that particular chain of events, but for the detectives it was seen first in their investigation. The shells, yolk, and albumin splashed everywhere are evidence of the crime, the historical indicators of past activities. Shell fragments and eggy goop on the floor are de facto proof that an egg fell and hit the floor.
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