by P J Humphrey
I didn’t have long to think about that alternative, because the two men had regained their footing and struggled for possession of the gun. I seemed to block them. Their thrashing around resulted in my being struck by flying fists and elbows and the next thing I knew, I hit the floor with a thud and felt pain in more joints than I knew I had. I also tasted blood, because my face, especially my lips and teeth, made touchdown first.
As soon as I could, I rose to my knees and crawled to a neutral corner. The men continued to fight, but it didn’t take me long to realize Doc got the worst of it. I decided, due to watching his moves, that Parton had had either Asian martial arts or some sort of military training. He moved with both speed and agility and soon had Doc on his back, panting and groaning, near where I lay.
Finally Doc reached out to the other man, grabbed his ankle and sent him sprawling too. The gun flew across the room, and Doc scrambled to his feet and dove for it. Parton did a swan dive of his own, landing on Doc’s back, but by then I’d managed to get to my feet and sprang toward them. I missed and once more struck the hard floor, this time knees first.
Parton, apparently surprised to discover he had two of us to battle, seemed to lose focus. Then with a quick glance at each of us in turn, he whirled around, sprinted to the door and crashed out of the room.
I thought Doc would follow him immediately, but he didn’t. Instead he came to my side and helped me up.
“He’s getting away,” I squeaked.
“It’s okay. Are you all right?” He held me tightly in his arms, and his tool belt squashed my midriff. Nevertheless, I managed to squirm away.
“Did you recognize him?” Doc asked. “Is he same guy who took the cell phone away from you the other night?”
My brain felt fuzzy, and I blinked and stammered. “I think so, but I never saw him. I had my back to him, and he had a gun.” I suddenly remembered. “What about the gun?”
“I hoped you had it.” He held up empty hands so I could see.
“How would I have it?”
“It sailed across the room and I thought it might have gone in your direction.”
“Sorry.”
“Actually I don’t care if he gets away. The point is, darlin’, are you okay?”
I almost didn’t register the “darlin’,” but when I did, I decided it he probably used the word for any woman whose name he couldn’t remember at the moment. “So...”
“So, it’ll be all right. If we had the gun, we could turn it over to the police. And, if he bought it legally, they might be able to trace it and arrest him.”
“What about the bullet in the wall, the fact Andrews had a broken neck instead of a gunshot wound?”
“Attempted murder then.” He shrugged and wiped at the blood on my mouth. “Are you still bleeding? Do you want to see a doctor?”
“No, I’m fine.”
In spite of the fight with Parton, Watson still wore the gardening gloves, which were obviously too tight for his large hands, and he pulled one off with effort.
Apparently satisfied I wasn’t badly injured, he retrieved my gloves, found where he’d left the flashlight and turned it on. He swept the room with its glow, as if making sure we left no incriminating evidence behind.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Back at my own apartment, Holmes greeted us with curiosity and asked the first question. “Did you find the bullet?”
“The bullet struck the wall next to the fireplace, but it’s not there anymore. Someone, probably the police, dug it out.”
Then I excused myself to wash my hands and face in the bathroom and examine the cut on my lip. It had stopped bleeding but, somewhat swollen, made me look like a native of some African tribe in an old Hollywood movie. Except that my hair and complexion were not dark enough to pass a screen test for the role.
Meanwhile Watson, having heard my part of the conversation, told Holmes about finding the bullet hole. He added that Parton had shown up, gun in hand, and gave a brief account of the fight that ensued.
When I returned to the sitting room with a cold wet cloth on my mouth, Holmes insisted we give him a blow-by-blow account of our run-in with Parton.
“I believe you are correct in assuming the man was Parton, probably returning to the scene to retrieve the knapsack he left behind. I need details, so describe him please. His height, approximate weight, clothes. What type of boots did he wear?”
I relayed these questions to Watson, and, one at a time, we described Parton as well as we could.
“The room was dark and he wore dark clothes,” I said. “I couldn’t see him very well.”
Watson did a better job, but then he’d been closer to Parton during the skirmish and might even have been able to identify the scent of his shaving lotion if necessary. “I suspect he’s been in the military and trained in hand-to-hand combat.”
I removed the cloth from my face for a moment. “But you held your own with him.”
Doc grinned. “I was the champion wrestler on my team in college.” He pointed at me. “Then you jumped in, so we were two against one.”
I raised my voice, but it came out a little muffled. “He can’t have been scared of me.”
“Maybe not, but he might have had second thoughts about shooting a woman, so that’s why he ran out.”
“He ran away?” Holmes asked.
“Yes, and we didn’t follow him, so I’m afraid we lost him.”
Watson repeated, for Holmes’s benefit, what he’d told me about hoping I had somehow picked up the gun so we could turn it over to the police.
Holmes strode across the room, hands clasped together behind his back. “What do you intend to do next?”
I repeated the question and Watson said, “We haven’t decided yet.”
“It is of no consequence. True, you might have used the gun as a means of drawing him out of hiding. He would not want you to turn it over to the authorities and tie him to the crime.”
While I repeated that to Watson, Holmes moved to the chair near the fireplace and sat. “However, while you were gone, I thought of a different means of getting the man to come here. One cannot draw correct conclusions about a crime unless one has all the facts. Therefore, I need to question the man and gain the necessary information.”
“You want him to come here?”
“Yes. How else may I question him?”
“How can you question him at all, even if he comes, when he will probably not be able to see or hear you?”
Holmes raised a hand. “Elementary, my dear. I will tell you what questions to ask, just as we’ve been doing with this young man and your grandmother.”
“I see. You say you think you know a way to lure him here for that questioning?”
“Indeed. I based my ‘lure,’ as you call it, on the incident of the necklace worn by the woman in the photographs, the one we assume might have been Mr. Parton’s sister.”
“The necklace? We don’t have the necklace. We only saw it in the photographs.”
Watson had been listening and watching me, and apparently followed my conversation with Holmes to some extent. “Necklace?” he asked.
The pictures had been moved to the roll-top desk earlier that evening while we ate dinner and then played Whist, so I removed them and put them on the table for Doc. I pointed to the necklace.
“Okay, I see that she’s wearing it in both photographs.”
“I believe that is significant,” Holmes said, “and I planned to propose we tell Parton we have the necklace.”
“Even though we don’t?” I asked.
Holmes looked smug. “A certain amount of subterfuge is often obligatory in the investigation of a crime. You may remember that in several cases Mr. Doyle wrote about, it sometimes became necessary for me to wear a disguise and pretend to be someone else in order to learn the truth.”
I repeated that explanation to Watson, and Holmes continued.
“If we had the man’s pistol, we could, of course, use that instead, but
now the falsehood about having the necklace will be useful.”
“So you’re saying,” I said for Watson’s benefit as well as Holmes’s, “that we should attempt to contact Parton and offer to return the necklace we saw in the pictures if he will just come here to be questioned by you.”
“Since he will no doubt be unable to see me, it will be necessary for you to ask the questions, and therefore my name need not be mentioned at all.”
Watson spoke up again. “And just how are we supposed to contact Parton? We don‘t even know where he lives.”
“In my day,” Holmes said, “we would have contacted him via the personal advertisements in the newspapers. One would write a notice such as, ‘If the owner of the amber necklace wishes to see it returned, will he please respond to Mr. Jones,’ or some such name.”
“And did that work?”
“Most assuredly. Everyone read the Personal columns and we received two newspaper deliveries every day.”
“Two newspaper deliveries a day?” I repeated. “In the first place, hardly anyone reads newspapers these days, much less has one delivered even once a day.”
Holmes sighed. “I fear you modern people have abandoned a very sure method of communication.”
Watson’s voice contained a little sarcasm. “We don’t need newspapers anymore. Most people rely on television news programs to tell them what’s going on, and the Internet can satisfy their needs instantly twenty-four hours a day.”
Holmes rose and paced the floor. Except for his footsteps, the room remained silent for a few minutes. “Very well, how do you communicate with someone in these times? Do you use that telephone camera device?”
“Yes, of course.” I smiled even though my mouth still hurt. “We may not know where the man lives, but we have his telephone number. We can call him.”
“And if he is not at home to receive your telephone call?”
“We’ll leave a message. Most people have telephone answering machines that will record a message and then play it back when the owner turns it on later.”
Holmes swirled around and gave me a smile. “Then that is what we must do.” He returned to his seat, crossed his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles, and grinned, as if the ball were now in our court and we must act at once.
I sighed. “I think you’re right, but even if he has an answering machine, there’s no guarantee he’ll have it on, or that he’ll listen to his messages any time soon.”
“It’s still worth a try,” Doc said. “I’ll leave the message, tell him we’ve got this, er, thing belonging to the dead woman, and if he wants it he must come here to pick it up.”
Holmes smiled again. “Excellent.” He tilted his head toward the ceiling. “All will be well if he heeds the message.” Then a frown replaced his smile. “I do wish we knew his address. The post would be much more efficient.”
“Efficient? You mean snail mail?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Snail mail is what we call letters delivered by what you call the post, because it is as slow as a snail. A letter might take days...”
“Or weeks,” Watson added.
“Surely not. Letters are delivered in England three times a day.”
“Perhaps they used to be a hundred years ago,” I said, “but probably not anymore. Here in the U.S. we only get mail once a day. And soon they may be only on weekdays. Our postal service is considering discontinuing Saturday deliveries.”
Holmes rose from his chair. “What are you saying? According to that machine you installed in my room, you Americans landed a man on the moon, but you cannot deliver mail on Saturdays?” He stomped across the floor. “And that was forty years ago. What have you done lately if not improve the mail service?”
When I repeated that to Watson, he laughed out loud. Then he stared at the place he apparently assumed Holmes might be standing. “We don’t need snail mail anymore. We have telephones, e-mails and Skype.”
“Stop,” I told him. “Holmes has a remarkable brain, but let’s not overload it all at once.” To Holmes I said, “I think it would be wise if you took your journey into the past hundred years a little slower.”
He made a scoffing sound and headed for his room. “If you succeed in having Mr. Parton at your door within twenty-four hours, I shall withdraw my remark.”
Doc and I groaned almost in unison.
Chapter 9
Watson made the telephone call from his own cell phone, because we decided a man’s authoritative voice would be best. Especially since the two had fought over the gun. And yes, we delivered the message by way of an answering machine.
The next day Doc took care of his clients, I went to my job at the bakery as usual, and Holmes took turns watching a documentary on his television set and scratching away on the violin. Tessa did not appear all day, although like Watson, she did just before eight in the evening in case Parton received the message and decided to obey the summons. She carried a small notebook and pen in her hand, as if planning to take down everything she heard and use it in one of her novels.
By a quarter to eight, we all assembled in my sitting room like a gathering of murder suspects, reminding me of old
Nero Wolfe mysteries I devoured as a child.
Holmes looked directly at me. “Before the man arrives and reveals the facts, if he does indeed show up and tell them to us, I think an explanation is in order.”
“What explanation?”
“The solution to the puzzle. Do you not remember our wager? You were to solve the case and prove you are a true detective.” He smirked.
The solution? I cleared my throat. “Very well. Here is my opinion of how the man died and who’s to blame.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair and crossed one ankle over his knee.
“In the first place,” I began, “the newspaper headline read, ‘Man shot to death in vacant apartment.’ Since the crime scene was nearby, Tessa and I went over to investigate.”
“Yes, yes,” Holmes said. “We know all that. Go on.”
“After this investigation, I came to the conclusion the dead man, Andrews, died from a fall in which he struck his head on the marble fender in front of the fireplace, causing his neck to be broken.” I paused.
Watson asked the next question. “Why did he fall?”
“I believe he and a second man in the room, probably Parton, held a lengthy argument. I think the second man had a gun and threatened Andrews with it. Perhaps the argument deteriorated into a fight and that resulted in two things, the gun being discharged and Andrews falling even though he hadn’t been shot.”
“Go on,” Holmes said. “Why did the two men fight?”
“Well...” I rose and paced the floor while thinking. “It would appear that they fought over a woman. The picture and newspaper clipping I saw in the backpack we found were of a woman named Adele Parton Andrews. Since we had learned that Parton owned the backpack, I deduced that the woman was the sister of Parton and the wife of Andrews.”
Tessa popped up from her chair as if she were a student in class. “I helped with that part.”
“Yes, you did. Thank you, Tessa.”
“So why did they fight?” Watson repeated.
I crossed to him and spoke softly. “This next explanation is just intuition on my part, but the newspaper account says the authorities found the woman in a well and that certainly suggests foul play. I think Parton thought the husband, Andrews, had something to do with it.”
I turned to the others. “I mean, people don’t usually fall into wells accidentally, or choose one in which to commit suicide. She didn’t die peacefully in bed, or in a hospital of some disease. Someone killed her and dumped her body in that well, and I don’t blame Parton for thinking Andrews did it.”
“Bravo,” Holmes said, and he clapped his hands together.
I didn’t know whether he congratulated me for having deduced the real truth, or said it sarcastically, as he often did with Inspector Lestrade in
the Doyle stories. Did he have a totally different interpretation of the evidence, and I’d be ridiculed in front of everyone?
I didn’t find out, because, at five minutes past eight, my doorbell sounded.
I hurried to the wall buzzer and pressed it to let our visitor come up. In the light of the several lamps I’d turned on in my sitting room, I observed a young man of at least six feet, with a sturdy frame and a pleasant face topped by thick brown hair cut very short. He wore a uniform, and I assumed it was an Army uniform, but couldn’t identify what branch.
We introduced ourselves, except for Holmes, of course, and while Tessa, Parton and I settled into chairs near the fireplace, Watson took the sofa. Holmes sat at the round dining table, his chair facing us.
After a few seconds of silence, Parton turned to Watson, as if expecting him to make the first move, but Watson referred him to me.
“I’ll be asking most of the questions,” I said.
Parton looked around. “What about the...? The message said you’d return the necklace if I came.”
”All in good time. Let’s get acquainted first. This is my apartment, and, as you know, Mr. Watson and I were inside the flat on Lyon Street where a Mr. Andrews, er, died a few nights ago.”
I took a breath before continuing. “Although I didn’t actually see you that time, you and I also met when you put a gun in my back and asked for the return of your backpack and cell phone.”
“I remember,” he said, “but you told me you didn’t have my backpack.”
“I didn’t. I still don’t. However, before the landlord of the building took it away from me in order to turn it over to the police, I looked inside and saw several items which eventually led us to you.”
“I didn’t kill Andrews,” Parton blurted out next.
“We know you didn’t shoot him. The latest newspaper articles indicate he died of a broken neck and a severe blow to his head.” I paused again. “However, you did fire a gun at him. It missed, but the neighbor upstairs heard it and called the police.”
“I went back for my stuff, but the police were already there, and I had to pretend to be just a drunk stumbling down the street in order to get away.”