The Copycat Caper

by John V. Madormo

  When we arrived at the radio station, Mr. Miles and his friends were in full rehearsal mode. When we sat down outside the studio and heard them read some of their lines over the speakers, it didn’t take long to appreciate just how talented some of these senior citizens actually were. They had taken Mr. Miles’s characters to a level that had never before existed—at least not on the stage of Roosevelt Middle School. I have to say—it was a real pleasure listening to them. They were all so smooth, and their deliveries were effortless. If you closed your eyes, you would have thought these veteran actors were the real people in the story. When I heard Mr. Miles recite the lines for Nick Dakota—now Sam Solomon—I couldn’t believe it. Not only did he sound exactly like the actor, Peter Wentworth, but he really sounded like a tough, no-nonsense, streetwise, 1938 private eye.

  When the recording finally began, I found myself watching Scarlett. It was as if she were in a daze. I think she enjoyed this experience more than any of us. She obviously had a love for this sort of thing and really seemed to appreciate the ringside seat. I watched her mouth some of the lines spoken by the woman who had assumed the role of Rebecca. After seeing her, I was glad that I had asked her to join us today.

  At noon, the acting company, as Mr. Miles referred to them, stopped for lunch. It was a chance for us to mingle with the actors. When Mr. Miles told his friends that the three of us were part of the sixth-grade cast that would soon be performing the full-length version of his play, they seemed really interested in talking to us about our futures. They wondered if any of us might choose the acting profession, either full or part time. I tried to dance around the question. I knew exactly where I’d be ten or so years from now—the proprietor of my own private detective agency—but I didn’t want to say that. I wanted them to think that I was at least considering a career in the theater.

  After lunch, it was back to the salt mines. These folks were real professionals. When they seemed even the slightest bit unhappy with their performances, the technician was instructed to stop the recording so that they could take another crack at it. They were perfectionists, and I guess that was why they were so good at what they did. We continued to observe for the remainder of the afternoon. It was a real treat. I was starting to regret having given up my leading man role. But when I thought about why we were doing all of this, I realized that being an actual private detective was a lot more exciting in the long run than playing one onstage.

  When the recording session concluded, Mr. Miles and the other actors engaged in a hug fest in the studio. It was fun to watch people so passionate about what they did. I overheard Mr. Miles talking to the engineer about their editing session tomorrow. I hoped that everything would fall into place. Mrs. Alexander picked us up promptly at five o’clock and drove us home. She asked a lot of questions about the program, but we were pretty tight-lipped about the reason behind it. Apparently Scarlett hadn’t mentioned the connection between the Sam Solomon dramas and the recent crime spree, and until we played it out, we thought it best to keep civilians in the dark.

  I didn’t have a chance to meet up with Henry or Scarlett for the remainder of the weekend. I actually locked myself in my room to finish up a project. We had to write an expanded book report—term paper length. And it was going to be difficult to write the paper since I hadn’t read the book yet. I found it a real challenge at times trying to balance two careers—full-time student and working P.I. Since we were allowed to choose our own book, I had asked to do mine on a Sam Solomon novel, but our language arts teacher, Mrs. Faulkner, wanted me to expand my horizons and pick something more classic in nature. She recommended a book called Lost Horizon, by James Hilton. It was a book that was usually assigned in high school literature classes, but she thought that I could handle it.

  And so for the next day and a half, I immersed myself in the land of Shangri-La, a Utopian society in the Himalayas of Tibet. I imagined myself as Hugh Conway, a member of the British diplomatic service, who finds inner peace and love in a strange land only to lose it all. But the story doesn’t end there. I’d rather not issue a spoiler alert. You’ll have to find out for yourself. But I’m happy to report that I found Lost Horizon nearly as captivating as a Sam Solomon novel, and that’s saying a lot.

  On Monday morning, Henry, Scarlett, and I made a beeline for Mr. Miles’s office the minute we got to school. When we arrived, we found him making notations on the play script.

  “Mr. Miles,” I said, “sorry to interrupt, but how did it go yesterday?”

  He waved us into his office. “It was grand, just grand,” he said as he sat up in his chair. “We finished editing the program about eight o’clock last night. And if I do say so myself, it’s a winner.”

  “And it sounds like the real Sam Solomon show?” Henry said.

  “You’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference,” he replied. He glanced at his watch. “We’ll find out soon enough. Fifteen hours and counting. Isn’t this just so exciting?”

  “If it’s all done,” Scarlett said, “does that mean we’ll resume play practice after school today?”

  Mr. Miles closed his briefcase and stood up. “I’m afraid I need to go home and take a nap. We’ll restart tomorrow, though.”

  We thanked Mr. Miles for his service and were on our way. As we headed to class, Scarlett stopped momentarily, grabbed a tissue from her pocket, covered her nose and mouth, and promptly sneezed. From across the hall, we heard a distinct but familiar sound.

  “Sssssssssss.” When we looked in that direction, we noticed Brian Hart, the hisser, with a book covering his face.

  “Oh, relax, Brian,” Scarlett said, “I don’t have a cold. It’s just spring allergies. I’m not contagious.”

  “Sssssssssss,” he continued. “I’m not doing any scenes with you in that condition. I can’t afford to have you hacking all over me.”

  We all chuckled and resumed our trek to first period. For the rest of the day, I couldn’t get the hisser out of my head. His fear of germs was way over the top. It reminded me of a situation that Sam Solomon had once found himself in. It was Episode #66—The Ill Will Caper. This was the story of Sebastian McCloud, a reclusive millionaire who, upon his death, left his fortune to his five sons. McCloud, a germophobe like the hisser, indicated in his will that each of his heirs would receive his share of the family fortune if he followed the father’s lifestyle and remained in perfect health for one year following his death. And if any of the sons became ill during that time, then his share was to be divided among the others.

  When the oldest son suspected one of his brothers of infecting the living quarters of his siblings with an active virus, he contacted Sam. The P.I. knew that he would have to do more than determine whose property had been contaminated and whose hadn’t. He fully expected the culprit to leave traces of the virus in his own living quarters to throw off suspicion. Instead of bringing in medical examiners to comb the belongings of each son, Sam instead looked for motive. It didn’t take long to identify the brother who had hidden a series of failed business deals and who, instead of chasing the dollars, should have been using good sense.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Hoarse Horse Caper

  At dinner that evening, I felt myself zoning out. I had a hard time keeping up with the conversation. I didn’t want to tell my parents that I had more important things on my mind. I couldn’t be bothered with small talk when the fate of the free world rested in my hands. I felt totally invested in this caper. Not only had I determined the link between the Sam Solomon dramas and the recent burglaries, but I had followed up on an offhand comment by my grandmother and suggested that we create our own old-time radio program that was sure to trap our suspect.

  When I asked to be excused before dessert, I had apparently tipped my hand. It was the first time my mother could ever recall my having passed on sweets.

  “Are you feeling all right?” she asked.

  “Ye
ah . . . I’m fine. . . . I just have a lot of homework. That’s all.”

  “Okay, but if you need a snack later, there’s a yummy piece of applesauce cake with your name on it,” she said.

  The temptation to stay put and devour a piece of my favorite dessert was almost overpowering, but I managed to fight it. I thought it best not to put any toxins into my system on such a fateful night.

  “Thanks,” I said. As I exited the kitchen, I caught my grandmother’s eye. She smiled and winked. She was all set for a late-night rendezvous at one of the bookstores in town. What I wouldn’t give to be alongside her tonight when she and Eugene confronted the elusive man of mystery and took him down. It would be so sweet. I thought about the rush I experienced a few weeks back when both Rupert Olsen and Colonel Harvard Culpepper were taken into custody. To have been there . . . to have witnessed it . . . to have been involved in the capture . . . was an indescribable feeling. I couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t be on hand when this latest adventure reached its climax.

  I went up to my room and tried to do some homework, but it was no use. I couldn’t do it. I even tried rereading a Sam Solomon novel, but I just couldn’t concentrate. I found myself staring at the clock on my dresser and watching the minute hand creep ever so slowly. It reminded me of being in school during a particularly painful class. When the realization hit that I’d be up well past my bedtime again, I tried taking a nap. Even that failed. I would just have to wait this out. At one point, I began marking off each fifteen-minute interval, hoping that it might speed things up. It didn’t. At about nine thirty there was a knock on my door. It was my grandmother.

  “This is it, kiddo,” she said. “Are you ready?”

  I nodded. “So, you’re all set for tonight?” I said. “You and Eugene at one bookstore and Chicken Bone and T-Bone at the other?”

  “That’s the plan.” She sat down on the edge of my bed. “I sure wish you were going with us tonight,” she said. “But it’s gonna be too late, and it might be dangerous.”

  “Gram, I’ve stayed up all night before, and I’ve been in my share of scrapes. I’m more than capable of handling myself in a jam.”

  She hugged me. “You don’t have to tell me that. I’ve seen you in action. Maybe some other time.”

  I sighed.

  “Listen, I’m gonna grab a quick catnap,” Gram said. “It could be another all-nighter.” She kissed me on the forehead. “Just be patient. Your time will come. Don’t worry.”

  But my time had come. I was sure of it. I wanted to tell her that. There was no reason for me to be patient . . . to bide my time . . . to pay my dues. I sat down on the bed and imagined what it would be like tonight to intercept the culprit and hold him for police. It would be so satisfying to know that our strategy had worked. Then I got angry. Most of this was happening because of me. It wasn’t fair that I had been squeezed out of the action. I flipped off the light in my room and hid under the covers with mini-flashlight in hand and headphones on. On a piece of scrap paper I began writing down each interval as it passed: 9:45, 10:00, 10:15, 10:30. At 10:45, I turned on the radio. It was a local chamber of commerce interview. Pretty dry stuff.

  Then finally, at eleven o’clock, it was time to boogie. The first thing I heard was Mr. Miles’s voice, as Sam Solomon, welcoming listeners and introducing the upcoming mystery. Then following a commercial break, the program began. It was so neat hearing the same voices we had heard only days before at the radio station, but now there were sound effects and music mixed in. I couldn’t believe how closely it resembled the actual Sam Solomon dramas. Mr. Miles and the others had really nailed it. I noticed how there now appeared to be a clear focus on the role of the bookie. Mr. Miles had gone out of his way to feature it as well as the character throughout the broadcast. If we were to be successful tonight, our suspect had to obsess on that particular reference. It was the key to making this strategy pay off.

  As the program was nearing its end, I was getting restless. I couldn’t believe I was stuck under these covers while Eugene, Gram, Chicken Bone, and T-Bone prepared for their big night. I was upset that I hadn’t been able to convince Eugene to add a surveillance team to cover the library. Not only was I sure that our suspect would show up there, but it was our only chance to be included in the stakeout. And now we’d just have to read about it in the papers. It wasn’t fair. Heck, I was the one who had made the connection between the Sam Solomon mysteries and the burglaries in the first place. I deserved a chance to be there. I had earned it. It just wasn’t right to be stuck here. And I had to do something about it.

  I jumped on the computer and sent an instant message to Henry. I was hoping that he had managed to stay awake this time. Seconds later he responded. I told him that I was thinking about doing something that might seem reckless, but that I couldn’t help myself. I explained that I was considering sneaking out of the house, jumping on my bike, and heading over to the library. I asked his opinion. It didn’t take him long to respond, and it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. He was dead set against it. And then right at that moment, I noticed that Scarlett had signed on and had become part of the conversation. She didn’t hesitate in expressing an opinion. Charlie Collier, I forbid you from going over to the library alone. Are you crazy?!! she wrote.

  There was only one thing I could do. I needed to think of a time when Sam Solomon was in a similar fix, when he disobeyed orders and ventured out even though it had proven dangerous. Sam’s actions would dictate my next move. After reflecting for a couple of minutes, I had it—Episode #56—The Hoarse Horse Caper. This story involved organized crime in Chicago and the fixing of Thoroughbred races at Sportsman’s Park. Sam had been hired by the owner of a horse that had mysteriously taken ill. The animal had developed an upper respiratory infection the day before a championship race that this particular horse was favored to win. Sam soon determined that underlings in the Chicago crime syndicate had forced the horse to ingest a potion that would simulate a bronchial condition, causing the horse to be scratched. When the crime bosses realized that Sam had discovered their scam, they decided to eliminate him—permanently.

  And when the police learned of this, they took the P.I. into protective custody for his own safety. Sam was escorted to a police safe house where he was under twenty-four-hour guard. But to Sam, who was forbidden from leaving, it was more like prison. He felt like a caged animal. How could he help his client from in there? He needed to make a difficult decision. If he snuck out, not only would the police be looking for him, but members of the Mafia as well. It was lose-lose. But his loyalty to his client came first. In a daring escape, Sam managed to elude his protectors and returned to the streets, where he was not only able to secure evidence that would ultimately indict the perpetrators, but assisted the authorities in their capture.

  There it was, as big as life. I now realized what I had to do. I sent another message to both Henry and Scarlett. I’m headed to the library. Don’t try to stop me. I signed off before either of them could respond. I knew the dangers of my actions. I knew that sneaking out of the house at midnight meant certain punishment from my parents, but for whatever reason, it didn’t matter. I had to see this through.

  I dressed quickly, snuck down the stairs, and tiptoed past my parents’ bedroom and into the kitchen. I checked to make sure that I had packed my pocket flashlight. I then slipped out the back door, and before I knew it, I was en route to the library. I decided against using the headlight on my handlebars. I knew that it would be difficult for cars to see me, but I couldn’t risk being stopped by the police since it was now past curfew. I was counting on the reflectors on the back fender to warn drivers of my presence. The library was about two miles away, not nearly the distance I had to travel to reach Eugene’s office. I made it a point to stay on side streets but avoided unlit alleys. I was on a mission, but I wasn’t crazy. I was actually surprised at the number of cars out this late on a weeknight. Where were al
l these people going anyway? Could one of them actually be the perp? I’d know soon enough.

  Within a few minutes, I had reached my destination—the Oak Grove Public Library. The building was completely dark except for a light in the lobby area. I rode my bike slowly around the perimeter, checking out all possible entrances. There was the front door, an employee entrance on each side, and a loading dock in the back. I soon realized that that there was no way I could keep my eyes on all of them at the same time. This was where a little backup would have come in mighty handy. I decided to hide my bike in a clump of bushes and work on foot. And so, every few minutes I would change my vantage point, from one entrance to the next.

  I had been worried about falling asleep, but there seemed little chance of that happening. The cool night air kept me wide awake. I had been observing things for about twenty minutes when I heard a sound. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was. I hid behind a Dumpster and tried to see who or what was out there. When the sound got louder, I knew that someone was only yards away. Part of me was hoping that it was our thief. But another part of me was hoping that it was anyone but him. When I heard footsteps scraping against the pavement, I crouched down and closed my eyes. I wasn’t feeling particularly brave right at that moment. The mystery man was now behind me and moving in my direction. I stayed perfectly still . . . until I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Ahhh!” I opened my eyes and turned. It was Henry. “You scared me to death. What are you doing here?”