“It was right there on the desk, sitting neat and square, and now it’s gone.”
“Did you lock your apartment door?” I asked.
“No. The building door is locked downstairs.” Tennessee looked around. “Someone in here stole it.”
Tallulah had buzzed us in.
“Did you make a carbon?” Tallulah asked as others came close.
“No. It was the first draft.”
“I know how awful that is,” said Tallulah. “Can’t imagine rewriting something as intricate as a play.”
Tennessee took her arm. “It has all the subtleties not in my notes.” He looked at me. “I had the cadence, the characters talking to one another, and put it down that way. The little nuances of speech.” He pulled at his hair. “Right now, my mind is a blank.”
His eyes darted around and he took two steps, flopped into an easy chair.
“Who would steal a play?” Tallulah said loud enough for all to hear.
“Another playwright,” said Tennessee. He leaned over, head between his knees. “All he has to do is send it to the copyright office and it’s his.” He looked up, saw me. “I haven’t had a chance to copyright it.”
“You should have your notes.” This came from Peter Lorre as he closed in from the front door.
“Notes? Notes?” Tennessee stood, faced the short actor. “Shows how little you know about writing, Mr. Lorre. Notes are scribbles on paper. Dialogue flows.”
Peter Lorre laughed that same maniacal laugh he used in The Maltese Falcon before Sam Spade slapped him. He stepped up to Tennessee, put a hand on his shoulder, and said, “Stop worrying, my friend. I saw who stole your play.”
Tennessee jumped up. “What?” He looked over his shoulder at me and I moved close.
Lorre clapped his hands. “Let’s make a game of this. Mr. Moto is about to solve your mystery.” His Hungarian accented-voice shifted slightly, acquiring a Japanese lilt. “There are no other investigators here.”
Carolina grabbed my elbow as she followed.
“Lucien!” Tennessee rushed over. “You have got to help me.”
Carolina announced to everyone, “Lucien Caye here is a private eye.”
Peter Lorre’s grin broadened and I don’t know what caused me to do what I did next, but I stepped up to Lorre and lowered my voice. “I want to know about this.”
He laughed. “Didn’t Mr. Spade say that to Brigid O’Shaughnessy before the police came?”
I let my head tilt to the side, raised a hand, and knuckled his chest, not too softly.
“Miss Bankhead. You have a phone?”
“Of course, dahlin’.”
“Call the police. The Third Precinct isn’t far.”
“There’s no need for that.” Mr. Moto’s voice was back. “You really a private investigator?”
I opened my suit coat, showed him my .38 Smith and Wesson.
Lorre ducked past me and did a jig, saying, “I was at the door and saw the thief leave and come back with something under his arm. I tiptoed after him.” Lorre did a little tiptoe.
“Did anyone else see?”
No one admitted seeing anything.
“I saw where he put the manuscript.” Lorre tiptoed to Tennessee and looked back at me. “It’s out on the patio, behind the large red pot with the huge fern.”
I turned to Tallulah. “Don’t let anyone leave. I’m serious.” I grabbed Peter Lorre by the elbow. “Show me.”
He led me through the kitchen to the balcony running to the rear of the building and down to the brick patio. A large oak and two magnolia trees dominated the entire back yard with potted plants at the four corners. One plant sat in a red pot, a fern, and behind it I found a stack of paper clipped together. Typed on the front page was “ASND. First Draft.”
I brought it and Peter Lorre back to Tennessee, who snatched the manuscript, flipped through it, then held it to his chest, glaring at Lorre.
“Okay, hotshot.” I grabbed the little man’s arm again. “If it wasn’t you, who did it?”
Lorre pulled away from me, straightened his shirt, and said, “Our renowned H. H. Clark.” He smiled at Mr. Pencil-Thin, who jumped back, shaking his head.
“Or,” Lorre said, “it was the celebrated Ferd.” Mr. Heavy-Set Balding Ferd Chesterfield. Named for a cigarette.
“Or was it the young Adonis, wannabe-actor Ruffin Adams?” He looked at the pretty-boy blonde.
Ruffin Adams growled and said, “I didn’t do it.”
H. H. Clark said, “Neither did I.”
Ferd Chesterfield said, “Clark did it.”
Clark jumped back, then laughed.
The three sat on the sofa, next to one another with their arms folded, Clark still laughing at Ferd, and I wondered if this was some sort of bad act. Peter Lorre moved in front of them, seemed to be thinking hard, and then looked at me with that creepy smile.
“Mr. Moto will say, with certainty—only one of those statements is true.”
Peter Lorre sat on an arm of the sofa.
“All right, Lazlo.” Tallulah Bankhead came over and towered over Lorre. “This isn’t a game.”
“Who is Lazlo?” Carolina asked. She stood next to me now.
“This weasel isn’t Mr. Moto, and Peter Lorre is his stage name. His real name is Lazlo Lowenstein.” Tallulah gave the little man a hard stare. “And I think you did it.”
“My dear Tallulah. Think. I was with you since Tennessee came in. Until the thief came back in and I told you’d I’d be right back. You saw who I followed?”
“No.” Tallulah looked at me now. “The little stinker’s right.”
I watched an older couple moving to the door and I reached over, grabbed Lorre’s arm.
“Well, you saw something. You knew where it was.”
“I saw who did it and you have the solution. You heard the statements and only one is true. If you are a private eye, you should be able to figure it out.”
“Smartass playing a game, huh?”
“A brain game.”
I looked at the three on the sofa. “One of these three, right?”
“Positively. And you have your clues, Mister Investigator. Only one of those statements is true.”
Clark started to stand up and I shoved him back down.
“Let me think a second,” I said.
“I’m leaving,” Ferd Chesterfield said and started to get up. I shoved him down harder and asked Miss Bankhead to go lock the front door. “This won’t take long.”
Peter Lorre laughed again. “I told you. Just figure it out.”
“This isn’t a game.” Tennessee said.
“Oh, but life is a game, is it not?”
The three on the sofa all looked guilty.
“Okay.” I pointed to H. H. Clark. He said, “I didn’t do it.”
I pointed to Ruffin Adams. He said, “I didn’t do it.”
I pointed to Ferd Chesterfield. He said, “Clark did it.”
“Bravo.” Peter Lorre applauded. “Such a memory. Only one of those statements is true.”
Tallulah huffed and a couple of her guests grumbled. The men on the sofa looked hard at me.
A goddamn logic game. I felt Carolina’s hand on my arm.
“Okay” I said. “If Chesterfield stole the play, then Clark’s declaration was true, so was Ruffin’s. That makes two true statements, so Chesterfield did not do it. If, on the other hand, Clark was the burglar, then what Ruffin and Chesterfield said was true, so it wasn’t Clark. That leaves Ruffin. If he’s the thief, then only one statement is true. Only Clark’s.” Cold smile as I move close. “Ruffin is the burglar.”
Lorre explodes. “Yes. Yes. Bravo! I saw him sneak out the front door, then back in with something under his coat, and then go through to the patio, only to return immediately, and you found t
he play in the patio. Excellent work.”
Tennessee stood next to me, asked Ruffin why he did it. Got no answer.
“Tell me why and I won’t press charges.”
I grabbed Lorre’s arm again. “Were you in on this?”
“Oh, my goodness, no. I do love a good logic puzzle. Don’t you?”
“I’ve never liked you.” I said. “In every movie. I never liked you.”
Lorre smiled and kissed my cheek.
“My dear. That is the best compliment I’ve had in a long time.” He pulled back, looked at me. “You’re not supposed to like Cairo or Ugarte. An actor who gets you to dislike him, even hate him, must have genuine talent. You see, I’m a thoroughly nice fellow in real life.”
Tallulah stepped up, shaking her head. “I have to admit, dahlin’, Lazlo is a nice fellow. Or was, before he ruined my party.”
“I did not ruin your party.” Lorre pointed at Ruffin. “He did.”
I grabbed Ruffin by the collar, yanked him up, asked Tennessee, “You want me to give him the bum’s rush or call the police?”
Tennessee looked at the man who’d stolen his play. “Tell me why and we’ll drop the matter.”
The pretty boy looked at his feet, let out a long breath. “I got tired of people fawning over people like you.”
“What does that mean?” Tennessee stuck out his chin.
Could the jerk mean Tennessee was a touch effeminate?
Ruffin snarled, dug a shoe into the carpet. “You’re not even from New Orleans, man.”
The playwright shook his head and told me to give him the bum’s rush. I took the punk outside and shoved him along, until he shuffled away along Saint Peter Street.
Tennessee Williams waited until I came back to grab my hand and squeeze. “Thank you.”
I tapped the manuscript he still had pressed to his chest.
“Can you tell us anything about it?”
Tennessee beamed, lowered his voice. “It is about a woman named Stella and her brutish husband Stanley and a fading Southern belle named Blanche who has always depended on the kindness of strangers. It’s about carnality. About love and sex and violence. You know. The great American trio. Set right here in this steamy city that draws passion from everyone, does it not?”
“ASND?”
“It’s the title. A title that can only be New Orleans.” Tennessee leaned against my ear. “Don’t tell anyone right now. ASND. A Streetcar Named Desire.”
Tallulah Bankhead stood in the center of her living room with arms spread out, said, “You have to admit, dahlin’, dahlin’, dahlin’, I do throw a dramatic party.”
Tennessee Williams narrowed his eyes, did not seem amused.
Me either.
When I took Miss Carolina Leigh home later, we kissed outside her front door, a feathery kiss that sent a chill through me.
“What does ASND mean?”
“It’s a secret for now.”
Those full lips pressed against mine, and the second kiss lingered until she pulled back.
“You sure I cannot tempt you into telling me?”
I shook my head. “I promised my friend.”
Her left leg moved between mine and remained there.
“I think I can tempt it out of you.”
I shook my head again.
“You can tempt me into a lot of mischief, ma’am, but I don’t break a promise.”
She leaned back, gave me a long look, and chewed her lower lip a moment before reaching back to open her door.
“You have potential, Mister Lucien Caye.”
She gave me a sexy smile and went inside.
I waited three minutes, in case she changed her mind, took in a deep breath, and headed home.
Potential?
Not a bad night. Miss Carolina Leigh and those kisses and I did solve a little Tennessee Williams mystery, didn’t I?
A Streetcar Named Desire. That had potential written all over it.
The Single-Handed Soldier
Jane Finnis
I knew he was a soldier as soon as he walked into the bar. He wore a patched blue cloak and was without armor or weapons, but he had the look of a legionary, tall and strong and confident. He strode across the room, and only when he came close did I notice there was something wrong with his left arm. He held it dead still by his side, hidden under his cloak.
I like soldiers. Of course I do. I’m a Roman settler in a frontier province, with barbarians across the border just waiting to invade. We need the army to keep Britannia safe and peaceful. Besides, I’m an innkeeper, and soldiers like their drink. So I smiled and said, “Welcome to the Oak Tree. You’ve picked a cold day to be on the road. What’ll it be?”
He smiled back. “A jug of red, please. I need something to warm me up. It’s bitter enough to freeze the wings off a bronze eagle, and I’ve walked fifteen miles today.”
“Fifteen miles! Then you’ve earned this.” I put his jug of wine on the bar, and poured out a beaker. “But you’ll be used to longer marches than that, in the legion.”
He made a face. “Don’t remind me. Twenty miles a day, carrying my pack, wearing full armor, and some pig of a centurion yelling at me to go faster. Days like that, I used to wish I’d joined the cavalry.” He glanced down at his left arm. “I miss some things about army life, but not those endless marches. Well…” he raised his wine mug. “Here’s to your pretty green eyes, my dear.”
So he was an ex-soldier. Presumably he’d been discharged because of his arm. It must have been a serious wound. I watched as he shrugged out of his thick cloak, pulled up a stool and sat down, put some coins on the bar, tossed back his mug of wine and poured himself a refill. He never moved his left arm once. I couldn’t see how it was wounded because it had a fawn cloth cover over it.
He glanced round the barroom. There were hardly any customers: a group of farmworkers were drinking beer and playing dice at a corner table, a couple of army messengers were eating a hasty snack on their way to the coast. The fire burned brightly, and someone had put a vase of autumn flowers on the bar.
“This looks a nice place,” he said. “Pleasant atmosphere, good wine.”
“Thank you. People say we run the best inn in northern Britannia. Other people, I mean, not just me.”
He laughed. “Is the innkeeper about? I’d appreciate a word with him, if he’s not too busy.”
“I’m the innkeeper. Aurelia Marcella, at your service.”
Some people are surprised to find a woman in charge, but this customer took it in his stride.
“I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Sergius Fronto, former legionary, now jack-of-all-trades.”
Sergius Fronto… I knew the name, but it took me a few heartbeats to place it. Then I remembered. “Are you the man they call the Single-Handed Soldier?”
“That’s me. I lost my left arm in the service. The one I’ve got now is made of wood.”
“You’re doubly welcome, then.” I meant it. This man was a hero, a legend almost. He’d saved the lives of several of his comrades in an ambush north of the frontier, even fighting on one-handed after his arm was hacked off by a barbarian. “So, Sergius Fronto, what can I do for you?”
“I’m hoping you might find a spot of work for an old soldier who’s down on his luck. I’m between jobs just now, and it’ll be December soon. No time to be on your own, sleeping rough.”
That struck an odd note. Everyone knows legionaries get a good payout when they leave the service. If he was on the road looking for work, he must have lost his money, or squandered it. I should be cautious about employing him, but I couldn’t help liking him. And he was a hero, after all.
“What have you been doing since you left the army?”
“Oh, this and that, you know. I’m good with horses, and I can be pretty useful at making and
mending things. Don’t let this bit of timber put you off. As I often say, I may only have one hand, but I can turn it to anything.” He grinned at his own terrible joke.
There was a sudden commotion from the group of dice-players in the corner. They’d been drinking since before noon, and were now drunk enough to become quarrelsome. There were raised voices and accusations of cheating, and I reckoned they’d be fighting soon. I said quietly to one of the barmaids, “Fetch a couple of the stable hands in here, will you? I think it’s time those four left.”
“I’ll sort them out, if you want.” Fronto got up and strolled across to the natives. They looked up in surprise when he loomed over their table, and briefly stopped arguing. He said into the silence, “No violence please, lads. If you can’t behave, it’s time you were on your way home.”
“And who might you be, telling us what to do?” The biggest of them half-rose and swung a wild punch, which Fronto easily dodged.
“I’m a friend of the innkeeper.” With his good hand, he gripped the big man’s arm hard enough to make him wince. “And she wants you out of here if you can’t behave properly. Are you going quietly, or do I have to teach you manners? It’s your decision.”
They glowered and muttered, but they left. I’ll admit I was impressed, and his next jug of wine was on the house. By the end of the day I’d agreed to find him some work in exchange for his keep, at least until the weather improved and he could move on.
He proved useful at odd jobs and local errands, managing remarkably well with his single hand. He was at his best in the bar, entertaining the customers with tales and jokes, and our midday trade picked up as word got around about the hero working at the Oak Tree. The men admired him, the woman adored him.
He was completely matter-of-fact about his false arm, making everyone groan with dreadful puns on the subject. (“Shall I give you a hand with that?” was one of his favorites.) His only embarrassment involved taking a bath, which he wouldn’t do when there was anyone else in the bathhouse, even a slave. Everybody respected his privacy.
There was only one puzzling thing which made me slightly cautious about him. He was full of war stories, some hilarious and some grim, but nobody could get him to tell how he lost his arm. I ask you, did you ever meet a soldier who was reluctant to talk about his exploits? No, neither did I. And Fronto’s legendary last fight was certainly worth the telling. But he always changed the subject if it was mentioned, and would even leave the barroom if customers got too persistent in their requests for details.
The Book of Extraordinary Amateur Sleuth and Private Eye Stories Page 17