I had hired a girl once to man the phone and watch the office. In retrospect, it had worked out well: sometimes she showed up, and sometimes I paid her. She was a looker, though: a tall brunette with gams that wouldn’t quit and a face you could drown in. It was even possible she could type, but I wasn’t sure. Truth be told, I hadn’t even asked.
Today, it seemed, was a no-show day, so I hung the sign on the door as I left the office. “Out Saving World,” it read. “Back at 3.” I had to get to the police station first so I could take a look at what was left of the body, and then I could visit the crime scene and see what a mess it actually was. If there was evidence, I wouldn’t put it past McCuddy to forget to tell me about it.
As I hopped the A-train to the police station, I thought about the case of the Knave. Bad news, that one had been, and hard to solve. The Queen of Hearts had made some tarts – on a summer’s day, as a matter of fact. But she had left the tray of baked goods cooling in her window, and not long afterwards the tray had gone missing. All the evidence had pointed to a Mrs. Jack Sprat, but finally I deduced that the Knave of Hearts had framed the poor lady. After the King subjected him to a public beating he was thrown in the clink, where he had sworn to pay me back when he got out. Now some dame’s boyfriend had bought the farm and the Knave was loose. Coincidence? I wasn’t sure. I needed to see the scene. I needed answers, I needed a strong drink, and I needed a new profession.
I finally arrived at the station and was taken to see the body without too many problems. Sure enough, his remains were scrambled. Aside from the obvious damage caused from a fall, there was no sign of fowl play. I gritted my teeth – I was going to have to see the scene of the crime.
Chief McCuddy gave me directions and a heaping serving of aggravation leaving me desperate for a drink. Luckily there were some local watering holes on the way to the scene, so when I arrived I was calm, relaxed, and a long way from thinking about the Chief, the Knave, or the nameless blonde-wigged dame.
For once the Chief was right. The only thing left at the base of the wall was hoof prints. I wandered around in circles for a while until the giggling fit stopped, then had a brilliant idea and walked around to the other side of the wall.
At first I saw nothing but blackness. Finally I convinced myself to open my eyes and the blackness disappeared. There was nothing but bare ground and some odd-shaped bushes. I was already planning the sympathetic speech I was going to have to give the lazy-eyed blonde when something glinted in the sun. Leaning closer, I picked it up and examined it.
It was a shard of broken glass, reflective on one side as if from a broken mirror, about the size of my thumb. Feeling somewhat like a Neanderthal trying to puzzle out a fuel injector, I turned the shard over and over in my hand as possible explanations for its existence rolled through my alcohol-fuzzed brain. Some of the ideas took a look around at the inside of my skull, settled down and stopped to chat. Was it an archaeological artifact from a lost, very vain culture? Had the original plan for the wall included full-length mirrors, but the mirrors had since been removed due to vandalism? Was it a piece of evidence left inadvertently by the killer, if there was indeed one?
That last suggestion appealed to me the most, so I introduced myself and began the interrogation.
To Be Continued
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