More Julius Katz and Archie

by Dave Zeltserman

  Tellier’s eyes went wide as he goggled at her. “By God,” he uttered. “You really have no idea.”

  The room grew uncomfortably silent as the two of them engaged in a staring contest. I groaned inwardly as I was expecting Julia to beat the information out of him, but instead she broke the silence by telling Tellier that she would see if she could discover the answer to her question without his assistance. She warned him that she was only going to give herself twenty minutes to do so, and if she failed she would be back to force it out of him at that time. “It won’t be pleasant if that needs to happen,” she added. She turned on her heels and headed back to Tellier’s den, where she proceeded to thoroughly search through his papers.

  “You surprised me by giving that cutthroat twenty minutes,” I said. “After everything he’s done, no one could’ve blamed you if you got rough with him, but I’m glad you’re trying it a different way.”

  “It’s a psychological tactic,” she whispered under her breath. “His worrying over these next twenty minutes should soften him up and make him more willing to talk if it comes to that. Hopefully it won’t. I’m assuming you have a recording of everything Tellier has said since we’ve entered his house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.”

  As she went through Tellier’s papers, I called Julius and gave him a rundown as to what has been happening while making sure to filter out anything that was classified.

  “It’s easy to connect most of the dots,” I said. “The book dealer who was killed, Daniel B., called several book collectors looking for this supposedly rare copy, including our bad guy, Mr. T., who ends up having Daniel B. abducted so he can find out who’s looking for the book, which is how he got Julia’s cover identity. I don’t believe he was trying to have your sister killed—at least not at first, but was instead trying to abduct her also, probably so he could find out who she was trying to get the book for. I don’t get it. Why all this hullabaloo over a book that he already had in his possession, and that he knows is worthless?”

  “Archie, one of the many detective novels used to build your knowledge base was The Valley of Fear by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. If you reexamine this book you’ll find your answer, as well as the reason why your Mr. T. wanted to abduct Julia.”

  I saw it immediately then and told Julius what had become obvious to me.

  “Very good, Archie.” Julius hesitated briefly before asking about his sister. “No harm has come to her?”

  “She’s good. In fact, I think she’s been having fun kicking ass. As you can probably guess, I’ve got some serious codebreaking to do. I’ll call you again when this is all wrapped up.”

  I had eighteen minutes and thirty-four seconds before Julia’s twenty minute deadline with Tellier would be expiring, and while I can do billions of calculations per seconds, that still wasn’t a lot of time given all the permutations I was going to have to try. As it was I went at it fast and furiously, so much so that I imagined my central processing heating up enough that steam would’ve poured out of my ears if I’d had them. Still, I might never have solved the code if it weren’t for several esoteric mathematical theorems that allowed me to more efficiently zero in on the answer. With only nine seconds left in the deadline, I told Julia how the inscription in the book was a cipher.

  “And a damned hard one to crack, more than hard enough to stymie someone like Tellier, but I’ve cracked it. I’m guessing there’s another book out there with the key for decoding the cipher, and that must be why Tellier went after you—hoping he could get the key from you. It’s pretty easy to guess that Laffont is in possession of the cipher key.”

  Softly enough so that Tellier wouldn’t be able to hear her, Julia asked, “Would you be able to encode a message I gave you?”

  “Yeah, easy as cake.”

  From where Julia was standing, I caught her reflection in a mirror across the room, and she was grinning a Cheshire-cat grin.

  “Archie, if you had lips, I’d kiss you.”

  An image came immediately to my neuron network of myself as that familiar heavyset man, but this time with Julia kissing me. All at once I felt this dizzying heat within my central processing unit, and I quickly made several adjustments to my programming so I wouldn’t imagine something like that again. After all, she’s my boss’s sister!

  I was too distracted to pay close attention when Julia went back to Tellier. I know she told him it was over, and that she’d be providing the police with ample evidence to convict him of Daniel Bouchard’s murder, including a recording of him admitting to the deed. I think she also said something about how he would have to wait until morning before the police would be arriving to arrest him, and that in the meantime he would need to stay tied up. I can’t say for sure. Again I was distracted, and it wasn’t until she left Tellier’s home that I had finished making the necessary changes to my programming and things settled back to normal, although for the rest of the evening I continued to feel an excess heat. I do remember, though, that Julia gagged Tellier and his three hired thugs before she left.

  The next morning she brought Jean-Pierre Laffont a copy of Our Mutual Friend inscribed to Marcel Bretel. Late that same night Laffont broke into a building in the heart of the Marais neighborhood of Paris. Shortly afterwards he found Julia waiting for him in the building’s basement. Laffont was a small, soft-looking man, and with his pale complexion, thinning blond hair, and nearly translucent blue eyes, he reminded me of a dour Pillsbury Doughboy, at least if the Doughboy were dressed head-to-toe in black like a cat burglar. For a long moment Laffont stared at Julia in bewilderment. Finally he caught on to what must’ve happened—that Julia was able to break the book’s cipher, even without the key.

  “So you already have it,” he said. “That is fine. You could have saved both of us some trouble by bringing it to me earlier, because I will not work for your people unless it is given to me.”

  What the it was, neither Julia nor I knew. Breaking the cipher provided directions to what we assumed was an object of some sort, and when Julia had a new forgery done, the encrypted message I came up with was directions that would lead Laffont to this basement. But Julia didn’t bother explaining any of this to him.

  “That’s not how this is going to work,” Julia told Laffont. “Let me explain to you about this building. The people you’ve been working for know that this building is used by my agency, although they don’t realize that we know they know. They also know that we watch this building closely, and that we would not allow someone to enter it unless we wanted that person to do so. You were recorded sneaking into this building. If your old bosses were to see that recording, there is nothing you’d be able to tell them to convince them that you haven’t been secretly working for us, and I’m afraid things would not go well for you after that. Do we have an understanding?”

  Laffont stood blinking dumbly at Julia as he processed this information. Once it finally sank in, a look of defeat passed over his eyes and his soft, round face deflated just as if a soufflé had fallen.

  “We have an understanding,” he acknowledged glumly.

  ◆◆◆

  Much later that night Julia broke into the Saint-Eustache Church, and without too much trouble found a one-and-a-half-foot-long piece of cardboard tubing in a hiding spot that was described by the decoded inscription. Later, when she was alone in her apartment, I couldn’t help whistling—or at least setting my voice synthesizer to simulate a whistle—when I saw what had been stored inside the tubing.

  “That’s a Pieter de Berge, I’m sure of it,” I said, referring to the oil painting that she had unrolled onto her kitchen table, which showed a redheaded woman decked out in a yellow gown and wearing a thick pearl choker. After a little less than two hundred milliseconds of searching Dutch art websites, I was able to verify that I was right. “The name of the painting is The Dame. As with Laffont’s supposed family heirloom, history has it disappearing sometime during World War II. A conservative estimate o
f its value would be ninety million U.S. dollars. Even if you wanted to sell it on the black market without its provenance, I should be able to find you a buyer willing to pay forty million without any questions.”

  “Archie, can you find its rightful owner?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  Without too much trouble I discovered that the only known heir of the painting’s last owners lived in Brussels. By this time it was 4:53 in the morning, and I was somewhat surprised when Julia repacked the painting and left her apartment with it. When she arrived at the train station and bought a ticket for Brussels, I held off saying anything, at least until she got off at the Brussels station and hailed a cab.

  “How about I call the heir and arrange a finder’s fee? Five percent would be standard, and in this case more than fair.”

  She took out her smartphone so it wouldn’t look to the driver as if she were a crazy woman talking to herself.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said.

  “Four and a half million dollars would buy you a nice retirement.”

  She laughed at that. “Archie, I’m only thirty-three. I’m far too young for retirement.”

  I wanted to argue with her. Not about her age or being too young, but for not arranging a fee. The problem was I discovered that I didn’t really have a good argument against what she was doing, so I watched in stunned amazement as she handed over the painting to the equally stunned heir. When this heir wanted to pay Julia a reward, and Julia refused, I couldn’t help myself from commenting that Julius would be having conniptions if he knew what she was doing, but all I got for my trouble was a thin smile.

  During the trip back to Paris, Julia told me that she no longer thought of me as some sort of whiz-bang hacking and codebreaking piece of technology, but more along the same lines of how Julius thought of me.

  “Archie, I’ve rather enjoyed your company,” she said. “And of course, you’re very good at what you do. Back in Boston I was only trying to tweak Julius by suggesting that you might not want to return when we were done, but now I’d like to make my offer official. If you ever decide you’re tired of being a detective’s assistant and would rather live the life of an international spy, I’d love to have you join me on a permanent basis.”

  “I’m flattered, of course,” I said. “I know all I have is a virtual heart, but you know the saying home is where the heart is? What can I tell you, my home is in Boston with Julius. Besides, if I weren’t there pestering him to occasionally take on a case, his funds would dwindle to the point he’d be unable to eat at the four-star joints he frequents, and he’d have to settle for more common fare, which would be a disaster for him.”

  Julia was astute enough to know that she wouldn’t be able to change my mind, so instead of trying she booked a Paris to Boston flight for later that afternoon, and afterwards, without her asking me to do so, I hacked into the airline reservation system and once again upgraded her to first-class at no additional charge.

  It was the least I could do. After all, thanks to Julia I was able to travel to Europe, solve a murder, uncover a lost masterpiece, and experience my first kiss, even if it was only a virtual one.

  CRAMER IN TROUBLE

  “Wow,” I said. “Ten to one you won’t be able to guess what just came over the wire.”

  Julius didn’t bite. There was a slim chance he was too absorbed in a Wine Spectator article about ten little-known Malbec gems to have heard me, but more likely he was simply ignoring me. Assuming the latter, he probably thought I was trying to nudge him toward a potential case, and since at that moment his bank account was flush and he had no unusual expenses on the horizon, he wasn’t about to give a moment’s thought to any sort of work, detective or otherwise. I persisted anyway, and told him that Cramer had been arrested for murder.

  Julius didn’t lower his magazine, but he did concede to utter, “Preposterous.”

  “Maybe it is, but it’s still what’s being reported. You know that low-level mob guy shot dead two days ago in East Boston? Chester Hoskow? The one who was able to dial nine-one-one after taking two bullets to the chest, but still ended up croaking before he could say anything over the phone? Well, supposedly they got Cramer on video doing the deed.”

  “Again, preposterous.”

  “Okay, be that way.”

  This time Julius lowered his magazine. “If this is some kind of joke, Archie, it’s a poor one at best, and I’d like you to reprogram your neuron network so that you don’t make any further ones like it in the future.”

  “No reprogramming necessary. I’m being on the up and up with this. If you don’t believe me, check for yourself. All the local news websites have the story online now.”

  Julius hesitated for a moment before grudgingly doing as I suggested. It didn’t take him long to find a newsfeed from one of the local television stations that reported the same basic facts that I had summarized. I was curious to see how he was going to respond to this news. Before recently being arrested for murder, Detective Mark Cramer had been, ironically, a homicide detective out of Cambridge, Massachusetts, and he and Julius had butted heads in the past over seven different murder investigations. Or more precisely, the head-butting was pretty much one-sided on Cramer’s part as he insisted on acting as if Julius’s only interest in life was in trying to pull a fast one over on him. If he had realized how truly lazy Julius was, and how Julius would’ve much preferred spending his time gambling, drinking, reading about wine, or simply puttering about, Cramer would’ve understood that Julius would rather have the police solve these cases so that he wouldn’t have to interrupt his beloved activities by performing actual work.

  “This is all utterly preposterous,” Julius said at the completion of the news story.

  “Try telling that to the judge who denied Cramer bail,” I said.

  “Archie, please find out Detective Cramer’s status.”

  I didn’t know what Julius’s motivation was for asking that, but I did a little hacking and got him his answer. “He was arraigned this morning, and he’s now sitting in a cell at the Nashua Street Jail.”

  Julius sat motionless for the next ninety-two point four seconds, his facial muscles hardening enough so that he looked almost as if he could’ve been carved out of marble. When he came out of his trance, he told me to call a cab to take him to that jail.

  “If you think I was trying to drum up business before by telling you about Cramer, I wasn’t. According to all the news reports, the video evidence against him is overwhelming. Besides, I checked his bank account and he’s got maybe enough to buy you a few cases of a moderately-priced Malbec, and certainly not enough to pay your usual fee.”

  “Nonetheless, I’d like you to call for a cab.”

  I have to admit, this surprised me. While Cramer’s belligerence toward Julius in the past might’ve at times bordered on the ridiculous, I never would’ve thought that Julius held enough rancor toward the man that he’d want to go out of his way to rub Cramer’s disgrace in his face, especially given that Julius had been looking forward to spending a quiet afternoon sampling cognacs at the Belvedere club. It just seemed so petty and out of character for him, but I didn’t say anything further about it, and instead did as he asked.

  For those of you who know about me and Julius only through the newspaper and TV stories, you’re probably wondering about Julius’s comment regarding my neuron network. While I might be Julius’s assistant, as well as also his accountant, unofficial biographer, wine purchaser, and all-around man Friday, I’m also not exactly a breathing flesh-and-blood human, even if that’s how I often think of myself. What I am is a two-inch rectangular piece of advanced technology complete with some whizz-bang auditory, visual and speech circuitry that Julius wears as a tie clip, and because of that when I told Julius the outdoor webcam feed showed that a cab had pull up to his townhouse, not only was Julius heading out to see Cramer in jail, but so was I.

  ◆◆◆

  Cramer loo
ked different as he sat in the visitor’s room with Julius. It was partly because of the jail-issued blue shirt and dungarees that he wore instead of his usual winkled suit. But it was more than what he was wearing. Cramer was a large man who in the past always seemed larger than he really was because of his blustery behavior. Now as he sat across from Julius he seemed diminished. Almost as if he had shrunk. His face, instead of its normal ruddiness, looked waxen and gray. The only thing about him that looked at all familiar was the way he was scowling at Julius.

  “So you came here to gloat,” Cramer said.

  “Hardly. Detective, did you murder Chester Hoskow?”

  “What the hell do you think?”

  “Please, sir, answer my question. At least if you’re innocent. If you’re guilty, then don’t bother.”

  From the look that flashed in Cramer’s eyes, I was pretty sure he wanted to tell Julius something very different than what he ended up saying—something that mostly likely would’ve included a long and colorful string of expletives—but he swallowed it back and told Julius in a strangled voice that he didn’t kill Hoskow, or anyone else.

  Julius is an expert poker player partly because he is so adept at identifying a player’s tell—those slight mannerisms that indicate when a player is bluffing. Very early on in his dealings with Cramer, he spotted Cramer’s tell, which is a hard smirk he shows right before he lies. No smirk was evident when Cramer claimed his innocence. I felt a rush of electrons burst through my central processing unit—a sensation that was akin to excitement—as I realized there was a good chance Cramer didn’t kill Hoskow after all.

  “Why did you go to Hoskow’s home when you did?”

  Cramer looked taken aback by Julius’s question. “You believe me then?”

  “I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t. Please, sir, answer my question.”

  Cramer rubbed a hand across his eyes, his scowl deepening. Reluctantly, he told Julius, “A confidential informant told me that Hoskow had information regarding a jewelry store robbery we had.”