Sherlock Bones 1: Doggone

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  Mr. Javier jetted up to approximately six feet off the ground. “About this tall, Boss.”

  Six feet tall?

  “Oh,” Mr. Javier added, “and he had really tiny feet.”

  Six feet tall, with really tiny feet?

  Earlier in the evening, I’d thought we were being silly, expecting the murderer to just walk through the door.

  Yet, that is precisely what had happened. The murderer had waltzed right in and had not only tried, but succeeded, in claiming the ring. And then we had returned to our salmon croquettes.

  What a bold chap this murderer was!

  Then it hit me:

  Just a short time ago, I had been face to face with a murderer, one who had stood as close to me as Mr. Javier was floating now.

  It’s a chilling thought, imagining one’s self standing in such close proximity to such a terrible person. But I didn’t have long to think about it, because now the dog was pestering the turtle for more information:

  “Where did the tall man go after the cab left him off?”

  “I’m sorry, Boss.” The turtle looked embarrassed. Well, as embarrassed as a turtle can look. “I was so astonished by there being no old woman in the cab that by the time I got over the shock, the man had disappeared.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Javier,” the dog surprisingly soothed. “You’ve performed well tonight, and the salmon croquettes were marvelous.”

  That last part was certainly true.

  “So what do we do now?” I asked.

  Before anyone could answer, however, the doorbell rang again.

  “I’ll get it, Bosses, I’ll get it!” Mr. Javier cried, jetting off.

  Could it be our murderer? I wondered as we waited for the turtle to return. But why would the murderer come back here? Unless it was to shut us up? I thought about what a murderer shutting us up might entail. Then I thought about hiding under the sofa. When it comes to a choice between fight or flight, I almost always go for flight. But then I straightened my spine. Now was no time for hiding in fear under a piece of comfy furniture. I had, after all, served in the Cat Wars.

  But when Mr. Javier returned, the person accompanying him was neither an old woman nor was it a tall man with tiny feet.

  It was Inspector No One Very Important and he had an important announcement to make:

  “I’ve arrested a suspect.”

  Well, blow me down again.

  “You’ve arrested a suspect?” Bones was as bowled over by this news as I was. “You’ve arrested a suspect?”

  I could understand the dog’s shock. Who would have ever guessed that Inspector No One Very Important would be allowed to arrest someone, much less solve the case?

  It seemed to me that in addition to being surprised by this news, the dog was also a bit anxious and grumpy about it. Perhaps he didn’t like the idea of the public detectives solving a case before he did?

  “We managed to locate the boardinghouse where, er, John Smith and his secretary were staying just prior to, er, John Smith’s murder,” said Inspector No One Very Important.

  “John Smith?” I puzzled. “Er, John Smith? Now, why does that name ring a bell … ”

  “Remember?” Bones prompted impatiently. “The dead body? When we found him in the abandoned building, you requested that we all call him by John Smith rather than use his real name?”

  “Right, right.” With so few opportunities for proper naps, my mind was getting a bit muddled on the details.

  “Please, Inspector, er—” I paused, realizing that I couldn’t call him Inspector No One Very Important to his face. “Do go on.”

  “As I was saying, we managed to locate the boardinghouse where, er, John Smith and his secretary were staying.”

  “My,” I said, impressed, “you really have been busy!”

  It never even occurred to me that while Bones and I were conducting our own investigation, the public detectives might actually be getting anything done.

  Wait a second. Did I just say our?

  “The boardinghouse,” Inspector No One Very Important continued, “is owned by—”

  He went ahead and named yet another one of those more involved human names. I think it was French because it began with “Madame.”

  “Wait, wait, wait!” I held up a paw to stop him. “This simply won’t do!”

  “How’s that?”

  “Wouldn’t it be simpler,” I said, suggesting the obvious, “if we just referred to this woman who owns the boardinghouse as Fifi?”

  Inspector No One Very Important and Bones both looked at me with what looked suspiciously like shock. Then Bones shrugged.

  “I don’t think it makes much difference.” Bones turned to Inspector No One Very Important. “Do you?”

  “No.” Inspector No One Very Important shrugged back. “I reckon not.” Then, clearing his throat, he continued. “We learned from Fifi that, er, John Smith, was quite the troublesome guest.”

  “How so?” Bones asked.

  “Was he one of those incredibly obnoxious types?” I asked, casting a meaningful look upon Bones. “You know the type—shows up uninvited and then just stays and stays until you think you’ll go mad?”

  “Not at all,” Inspector No One Very Important said. “He was out of control one night and tried to kiss Fifi’s daughter.”

  “And that’s why he was killed!” I said. “In order to get back at him for trying to kiss her daughter, the boardinghouse woman murdered him!”

  “Of course not!” Inspector No One Very Important said. “That’s not what happened!”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No! Fifi simply kicked him out.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed that his answer wasn’t what I had expected. “Well, I suppose that’s not terribly surprising, is it? If he tried to kiss my daughter, I’d kick him out too. Not that I’ve ever had a daughter. Or a son for that matter. Or a litter.”

  “Catson?” Bones said.

  “Yes, Bones?”

  “Do you think we might let the inspector get on with his tale?”

  Oh. Right.

  “Yes, well,” Inspector No One Very Important continued. “After, er, John Smith was evicted, he didn’t exactly stay evicted.”

  “He didn’t?” I said. I hadn’t seen that coming.

  “No,” Inspector No One Very Important said. “According to Fifi, he returned to the boardinghouse later the same night and tried to kiss Fifi’s daughter again.”

  “No!” I was horrified on Fifi’s daughter’s behalf.

  “Yes,” Inspector No One Very Important reassured me.

  “The scoundrel,” I said.

  “Indeed.”

  “So then what happened?”

  “Well, he was attacked, of course.”

  “By the daughter?” I said, eager once more. “So it wasn’t Fifi who murdered him. It was her daughter?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Oh.” I was puzzled. I’d been sure I had it that time. “Who, then? Who attacked, er, John Smith?”

  “It was the brother!” Inspector No One Very Important said, eyes flashing.

  “Wait, wait, wait! Hold on here!” I held one front paw straight in the air. “Time out!”

  “What appears to be the problem?” Inspector No One Very Important asked.

  “The brother? The brother?” I turned to the dog. “Bones, help me out here. Am I missing something? I’m quite certain a brother wasn’t part of the story before.”

  “If there’s a Fifi and she’s got a daughter,” the dog said, “I see no logical reason why the daughter can’t have a brother.”

  “Oh, pah.” I waved at him disgustedly. “You’re no help.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to tell us,” Bones addressed Inspector No One Very Important, “what exactly the brother did?”

  “Well, he chased, er, John Smith out of the house, didn’t he?” Inspector No One Very Im
portant spoke as if this must be obvious when, really, nothing seemed obvious to me anymore. “By his own admission, the brother chased John Smith down the street and when he caught him, he beat him a bit about the head.”

  “And that’s how he murdered him?” I said. “But er, John Smith was killed with poison.”

  “He was,” Inspector No One Very Important agreed. “At any rate, the brother claims it wasn’t him that murdered, er, John Smith. Claims, er, John Smith was still alive when last he saw him. That somehow John Smith escaped his clutches and got away.”

  “So then the brother isn’t the murderer?”

  “Who knows? Of course, we arrested him anyway.”

  “That’s who you arrested?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because hitting a man who tried to kiss your sister does not constitute murder? Because you don’t have any real evidence? Because you might have the wrong man?”

  “Well, who’s to say that he didn’t commit the murder? And anyway, we have to arrest someone, don’t we?”

  My mind reeled. Frankly, it wasn’t how I thought our justice system worked.

  At last, I simply threw up my paws. If they had made an arrest, I might as well have a snack.

  “Anyone hungry?” I offered.

  Inspector No One Very Important scrunched up his face in what apparently passed for deep thought for him. “I could eat,” he decided.

  “Bones?” I prompted.

  “Always,” the dog said.

  “Mr. Javier!” I called. “Are you still awake?”

  Mr. Javier entered the room slowly, in his usual four-legged fashion but with the jetpack still attached to his back. Perhaps he’d decided to try being a little more cautious with his device, at least indoors. After all, there was the threat of all that crashing, particularly into walls.

  “Of course I’m awake, Boss,” Mr. Javier said. “I try my best to be awake whenever you’re awake and might need me, which, I must confess, can be a bit challenging.”

  “Challenging?” Was I a demanding boss and had never realized it before?

  “Wake, sleep, wake, sleep, wake, sleep—about sixteen times on the average day. Except for today. Today it’s been almost all awake.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sorry for any inconvenience. You have the dog to blame for that. But since you’re up anyway, do you think you might prepare us all a snack? What do we have in the kitchen?”

  “A little bit of this, probably too much of that. But really, Boss, we’re no longer limited to what’s already in the kitchen.”

  “We’re not?”

  “Of course not! We can get the takeout!”

  “The takeout?”

  “Yes, the takeout, Boss! The takeout, the takeout, the takeout!”

  My, the turtle was working himself into a tizzy.

  “You know, Boss,” Mr. Javier prompted, “the takeout? You get those menus they shove under the door, then you call the dining establishment, and you tell them exactly what you want. Then, they tell you how much it will be and that you can pick it up in ten to twenty minutes, and you go out to pick it up. Within a half hour, you have a wonderful meal in the privacy of your own home that no one under your roof actually had to prepare!”

  Clearly, he had given this a lot of thought.

  “We could never get the takeout before,” Mr. Javier said, “because by the time I would get it home, it would be the next day or even the day after that. The food might be stale or maybe your desire for it would have passed. But now? With my jetpack? We can get takeout from anywhere! What’s your pleasure, Boss? We could get the Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Vietnamese, Italian, Chicago deep-dish pizza, New York thin-crust pizza, New Haven white clam pizza, Australian shrimp on the barbie, Lebanese, Ecuadorian—”

  “Mr. Javier.” I held up a paw to stop him before the turtle reeled off every ethnic cuisine on the planet. Was there a continent he’d missed? I didn’t think we had time to wait and see what he came up with for Antarctica.

  “Yes, Boss?”

  “You decide,” I said magnanimously.

  “Oh.” The turtle’s eyes went wide. Well, as wide as a turtle’s eyes can get. “Oh!”

  Within moments, the turtle had jetted over to the telephone, a black contraption that sits on an occasional table I hardly ever use. It’s the phone I hardly use since I don’t care much for talking on it; the table I do use occasionally. Mr. Javier removed the receiver from the base of the telephone, dialed a number, spoke rapidly and replaced the receiver. Then he flew down the stairs without thought for his own safety—crash—and out the door.

  It truly was amazing.

  Within a half hour, the turtle was back with dozens of little white cartons. While he was gone, we had rehashed the case so far. All the things I’d told Mr. Javier about while he was preparing the salmon croquettes were included, with the addition of the parts about: the old lady coming to retrieve the ring in answer to the newspaper notice; Mr. Javier following the cab and seeing not an old lady exit, but rather a tall man matching the description of our murderer; finally arriving at the information about Smith’s stay at the boardinghouse, Smith’s kissing of the daughter, Smith’s beating by the brother, and the ridiculous—to my mind—arrest the public detectives had made as a result. In the remaining time, Bones had showed Inspector No One Very Important some fencing moves while I mostly yawned.

  “What did you get, Mr. Javier?” I asked as he began to set the meal out on the dining room table.

  “I thought, Boss, for this first takeout experience, we would go traditional, so I got Chinese. Next time, we can branch out a bit, be more adventurous. I got the wonton soup, the spareribs, the egg rolls, the Moo Shu pork, the shrimp with cashews, the—”

  He reeled off so many dishes, I feared what effect Mr. Javier’s new obsession might have on my wallet, let alone my waistline. But it all smelled so good, I could hardly complain.

  Just as we sat down for our snack and just as I was reaching with my chopsticks for a plump jumbo shrimp, the doorbell rang.

  “I got it, Boss!” Mr. Javier cried. “I got it!”

  A moment, one crash, and some heavy footsteps clomping up the stairs later, Inspector Strange walked into the dining room.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, “there’s been another murder.”

  “Another murder?” Dumbfounded, I dropped my shrimp. “But we never properly solved the first murder!”

  “Well,” Inspector No One Very Important put in, “we did arrest the brother.”

  “Oh.” I waved a disgustedly dismissive paw at him. “Obviously, he didn’t do it.”

  “Catson does have a point,” Bones said. “Although, while I usually deal in murders one at a time, I don’t suppose I mind taking them in bunches. So, who’s the new dead body?”

  “I already filled them in on what we learned at the boardinghouse,” Inspector No One Very Important informed Inspector Strange.

  “Fine, fine,” Inspector Strange said irritably. Who could blame him? Inspector No One Very Important seemed to have that effect upon people.

  “Oh,” Inspector No One Very Important added, “by the way, we’ve all agreed to refer to the woman who runs the boardinghouse as Fifi.”

  “Fine, fine,” Inspector Strange said again.

  “The new dead body?” Bones prompted with an admirable degree of patience. “You were about to tell us about the new dead body?”

  “Yes, and I would have right away if I hadn’t been sidetracked by—never mind. I was about to say that I tracked down the secretary of, er, John Smith.”

  “Does the secretary have a name?” I asked.

  “Of course he has a name!” Inspector Strange said. “Or I suppose I should say he had a name.”

  Had—that sounded ominous, at least for the secretary.

  “Do you think,” I suggested helpfully, “that we might simply refer to him as the secretary?”

  “That’s exac
tly what I was doing!”

  Grouchy, grouchy.

  “And where did you track the secretary down?” Bones asked.

  “In another boardinghouse,” Inspector Strange said. “Unfortunately, though, my timing was a bit off.”

  “Off?” I asked. “How so?”

  “Well, he was already dead, wasn’t he?” Inspector Strange snorted. “It would have been more convenient of him to wait until after I had a chance to speak with him before he went and got himself murdered.”

  “Yes, I’m sure his murder was very inconvenient for you,” I said dryly.

  Inspector Strange shot me a look.

  What? I think I know when a little sarcasm is called for, which is almost always.

  “When I arrived at the boardinghouse,” Inspector Strange said, “the owner told me that the secretary had said he was expecting a visitor. The owner assumed I was that visitor and I didn’t correct him. But when I got to the secretary’s door and knocked, there was no answer; when I tried the doorknob, it was locked from the inside. And, yet, the owner swore he hadn’t seen the secretary leave.”

  “The plot thickens,” Bones said.

  “Yes,” Inspector Strange said. “It has a bad habit of doing that, doesn’t it?”

  “So what did you do?” I asked.

  “I broke the door down, of course,” Inspector Strange said, clearly proud of his strength. “That’s when I saw the dead body, this one somehow killed in a locked room.”

  Locked room? I’d encountered mysteries in my lives before, but I never thought I’d encounter one involving a locked room!

  “But how did the murderer get in or out,” I asked, “if the door was locked from the inside?”

  “Elementary, my dear Catson,” Bones said.

  “It is?”

  “Of course.” Bones regarded Inspector Strange. “After gaining entry to the room and finding the body, you noticed that a window was open. And looking out the window, you found evidence that a ladder had been used to reach it. Perhaps the ladder was even still in position there?”

  Inspector Strange, Inspector No One Very Important, and I all stared at the dog in wonder.