The Case of the Golden Blues

[Phil M. Noir]

Chapter One

The fog off the bay was so thick that I was tempted to open a window and try to carve off a piece to spread on my fifty cent bagel that was more fit to be seagull bait than it was my lunch, but that was life in San Francisco. The fog played hell with honest businessfolk trying to make it back to their offices, with police detectives staking out the lowlifes who infested the city and ate away at it like the rot on the wall of my apartment, and all around made life a nuisance for anyone with anything important to do.

I, for good or bad, didn't. Hadn't for a couple of months, which is why I was trying to choke down the last of a bagel with a cup of day-old swill that may once have resembled coffee. When you're sucking on the government tit and not having much result, that taxpayer money milk can dry up real fast. That's the thing the suits never told me when I was signing enough papers to account for a small forest. I'd thought I'd gotten a real sweet gig, back then. One of the SFPD's best and brightest beat cops, ready for promotion to detective. Then the chief of police himself invited me in to a meeting with himself and some folks from Washington, who say they have a once-in-a-lifetime deal for me. I could become my own seperate agency, working partly as a private firm, partly as law enforcement in my own right. I'd be like that racket that J. Edgar Hoover's got going, but working more like the police, just without jurisdictional and interdepartmental hassle. If everything went well, I'd get to pick a few flunkies and they'd put me in a bigger office. So I signed over with them, left the force with pats on the back, and waited for my ship to come in.

I snorted as I once more read the words that I could see stenciled on the glass of my office door. They were reversed, sure, but I had them memorized. "ACME Detective Agency." Below that, "Det. Arthur Finder" sat there mocking me in smaller print, reminding me how proud I'd felt when that was put on. You see, it seems that my ship was actually a rotten dingy full of holes. I had a combination office and living space that usually had hot water, as long as no one else in the building was using it. I got enough per month for bread, beer, and peanuts but not much more. My biggest perk was a government phone line. No more dime calls for me! To be honest, that was the main reason I stuck with it through the months of nothing. Sure, I didn't have much family to call, but there was always the chance that some dame would give me her number. Still, the last time I'd had any contact from the G-men above me was "good luck, we'll be in touch soon" when I had moved in, and I was restlessless. I'd read the paper twice already, and was considering giving in to boredom and attempting the crossword puzzle, when a soft rapping echoed from that frosted glass panel. I looked up, and the silhouette on the other side made me stand up and take notice. I straightened up my desk and scrubbed my face with my hands, and then called out, "Come in."

The broad who opened the door had the figure the glass had hinted at and then some, with curves that could make me break my neck if she were to walk by me on the street. Her skin had that natural tan of Mediterranean blood, and her scarlet dress with black fur accents left just enough to the imagination to make me want to buy her dinner before knowing her name. Her hat matched her dress, with a black lace veil hanging down in front of her face. Her crimson lips curved into a slight smile as I stood behind my desk, and we stood there in silence for a moment as I got the sense that she was looking me over as thoroughly as I had her.

"You are Detective Arthur Finder?" she purred.
"I sure am. How can I help you?" I replied, trying to recall every bit of manners I'd ever learned.
"Oh, you already have. I imagine you will in the future, as well." She chuckled once, quietly, to herself, before continuing. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Detective. It'll be a shame when we have to meet again." Reaching into her small black velvet handbag, she pulled out a plain white business card and handed it to me. Turning her back, she walked out the door, and to my befuddled male brain even the sound of her heels on the chipped hardwood floor sounded sultry.

Shaking my head at the crazy turn the day had taken, I sat back down and looked at the card the chickadee had brought me. "C. Sandiego, Relocator" is all it said, inscribed in gold ink with plenty of flourishes. Smiling bemusedly, I tucked it into a little sleeve of my battered leather wallet. It'd make a good memory, if nothing else.

That was when the phone rang, and when I truly met Ms. Carmen Sandiego.

(to be continued...)

 

[Chase]

(I really like this, and you might also want to put this into Story Format in the Story Library here: Story Library | The Elusive Carmen Sandiego

So you can make a new page for each new Chapter. I've moved it as an example for you here: The Case of the Golden Blues | The Elusive Carmen Sandiego

Good stuff, keep it up.)

 

[Phil M. Noir]

"Detective Finder," said the gruff voice on the other end. I recognized the voice from the time I'd heard it a few months ago.

"Yes sir, Mr. Mett. My secretary's on lunch and all my other guys called in with a case of invisibility," I replied. Maybe I should have been diplomatic, him being the closest thing I had to a direct boss, but after all the time waiting, I felt justified.

"Stow the lip, Finder. I've been doing my best to get you cases, but the kind of stuff we've been looking for has been few and far between. Red tape stops most of it."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll make sure to tell the yahoos on the street they need to up their game or I'll be freezing this winter."

"I said button it. There's a case out there now that you can get into. The cops know you're coming and you can check out what they've got."

"Well that's all well and good, you know. The museum?"

"How'd you know that?"

"I can read, Mett. It's front page news around here. 'Amulet of Egyptian Priestess Stolen Night Before Exhibit.' This new exhibit has been news for a week."

"Fine, then we keep this short. Get over there, find out what you can, get the amulet back. You need anything to cut through red tape, you call me. Get to it."

I had a snappy reply ready, I swear, but it would have been stupid to waste it on the dead line now in my ear. Shrugging, I hung up and leaned back in my chair. I could say it was keen investigative senses that suggested I pick up the paper and reread the article on the theft, but my mom always taught me not to lie. I was feeling petulant, and somehow taking my time getting to the museum felt like justice. The ink said the same stuff it had this morning. A break in at the museum into the new exhibit the night before the unveiling, and the Amulet of Tekh-bes, a priestess of some god or another, was stolen. It wasn't the only case broken into, but it was the only item taken. The night guard had been knocked out and left in the exhibit room, and he said he'd been chloroformed from behind. According to the paper, the police had no leads at present, but the boys in blue often say that. I'd been assigned to keeping the press jackals away from crime scenes enough times to know that. Sighing and feeling like my honor was satisfied, I made the mistake of finishing off my awful cup of joe and headed out into the fog, locking my office behind me. I caught a trolley for most of the trip, and showed up in the late afternoon, when the lower sun highlighted the banners proudly declaring an exhibit that, for now, would not be opening.

I walked past the tape and surveyed the scene. There were still a couple uniforms around, helping a very sour and familiar face to me. "Peterson, that you?"

Hearing his name, the detective turned. "Artie? Wow, so they finally got you to a scene, eh partner? I thought they were going to keep you in that frosted glass pen until you died of boredom," he laughed.

I couldn't help but chuckle with my old beat partner. "You've been keeping eyes on me, Peterson? I'm touched."

"Well, with the bureaucratic nightmare waiting to happen that you represent, can you blame me? What, you thought I did it just because I wanted to know how my partner was doing with his new gig?" We met with a smile and a handshake. "Glad you're here. And thanks for leaving that detective position open."

"No problem. They were smart to bring you up too. So I only know what they had in the paper. What kind of leads do we really have?"

"Not a one," he replied, causing my eyebrows to jump. "We were telling the truth this time. We've got a couple busted glass cases, a useless eyewitness, and a missing old thing worth more than we'll ever make."

"Money, then?"

"When it is not? And I know what you're going to ask. We're checking with the usual sources, but no one's heard of anyone trying to find a way to unload it. Sounds like they're doing the smart thing and sitting on it until the heat dies down."

"You know, there's nothing I hate more than a smart criminal. Why do they have to make our job so hard?" I walked over to the case that used to hold the item in question and read the little plaque held within. Apparently it was an amulet of a priestess of Bastet, a goddess of cats, and was made of gold and lapis lazuli, a semiprecious blue stone. The glass case had been truly shattered, the whole top broken and a lot of the sides as well. There were a couple other baubles in the case as well, but it was clear that the amulet had been the centerpiece. I heard Roger Peterson walk up behind me, crunching on bits of glass.

"So do you believe me, now? Always have to see it with your own eyes, don't you?"

I nodded and turned to face him. "What about the other broken cases?" I asked, gesturing at the nearby cases that were also broken, though none as much as the one that had held the amulet. "Anything else taken?"

"Not a thing." He frowned a bit, and I knew him well enough from our days on the street to recognize when he was dealing with a puzzle.

"Out with it, Peterson. A clue?"

Shaking his head, he replied, "Nothing so solid. It's just a couple things. First, why take time breaking the cases if they didn't want to take anything. Second, the amulet wasn't the most expensive in this room. It was close, and it was certainly the most talked about, but there are things around here that have more gold and gems. The second says the thief knew what they wanted, the first says they didn't. It just doesn't add up."

He had a point, but after chewing on it a bit I couldn't make any more of it than he could. We spent some more time walking the scene and catching up with each other, but nothing more came to mind for either of us. We parted, and I gave him my card with instructions to call me if he got a hot tip, and I headed back to my apartment office. When I unlocked and opened the door, I expected a slightly darker copy of the room I'd left earlier to greet me, as one does when one locks the door on the way out. For the most part, it did. However, sitting right in the center of my desk was a manilla envelope. I had my gun out of my holster the instant after my brain got over the fact that I was not hallucinating, but when I checked my rooms, I was alone. Only then did I take the time to look at the envelope.

The first thing I noted was that it bulged quite a bit, like it had a box or a bag stuffed inside it. The second was that it had been addressed to me in a very precise but feminine script, and the lack of a postage stamp showed that it hadn't been a very determined mailman that put it on my desk. For a moment I considered that I should be worried about a bomb, but I dismissed that thought rather quickly, due to the simple fact that I couldn't see anyone wanting to do me in. I opened it up, and poured the contents onto my desk. The first thing that tumbled out was a keychain that had a white rabbit's foot at the end of it. The second was a bag of coffee beans, and judging by the amount of accents used on the packaging, I could tell that it was high-end stuff. The third was a folded-up note, and as I unfolded it I noted that the handwriting on it was the same as on the envelope. It read as follows:

My dear Detective,

I give you this rabbit's foot for luck, and I am sending you this note because I don't believe in head starts. We are now in a game, you and I, a game that started last night with the theft of the Amulet of Tekh-bes, and that will wrap up when you either give up or catch me. It will be the most difficult contest of your life. You see, I have planned this game for many years, and I've been waiting for someone with both the skill and resources to play me at it. Your career shows you might have promise, and with your recently granted semi-autonomy by the government's men, you might have the latitude to do what you will have to do to win.
So, the first move is made. What is yours? I assure you that with everything at your disposal here and at the museum, you can find the amulet. I will give you a week. After that, the amulet will be lost to you. I hope you're ready, Detective. Or should I call you Player?

Looking forward to a spirited match,
C. Sandiego

P.S. The coffee is unrelated, and my treat. I just would hate to have you die from drinking that poisonous slop I smelled in your cup this morning.

As I finished the note, I felt my legs go weak beneath me and I had to sit down. I placed the paper on my desk and closed my mouth, which I'd just realized had been hanging open in shock. The thief had been in my office this morning? That gorgeous woman? And she had the self-confidence to openly declare it and even tell me that there were clues to be found? Either I was dealing with a certifiable nutball, or this case was going to change my life.

I had no idea how right I was.

(to be continued...)

 

[Phil M. Noir]

Chapter Two

I must've sat in that rickety chair of mine for a solid two hours, staring at that note and feeling my brain fry itself between my ears. I just kept going over it all again and again, unable to accept that some lowlife broad had played me like a fiddle. I mean, sure, I hadn't known at the time that she was a crook, but I should have known something was as fishy as the wharf. Instead I'd let her make a fool out of me like no one had before. I was determined to figure out how I was going to crack this case open, find the thread that would make her whole scheme unravel. Still, after two hours, I finally had to admit to myself that I was about as good at finding that loose thread as I was at figure skating. So it was that with an ache in my head and an emptiness in my stomach I decided to crack into some of my hard-won savings and spring for a hot dinner that didn't look and taste like a cold can of beans.

There was a place downtown, right on the line between the fancy and clean parts the tourists like and the rough places where the tourist's wallets and jewelry end up. It was called Jimmy's, and it was my favorite joint around, for both business and pleasure, and I knew quite a few. The drinks were cheap, the employees were usually friendly, and the seedy type that came in knew me well enough to be willing to slip me a bit of information on the side if I looked the other way to the fact that they probably had some dope on them. Sure, it would have been an illegal search to find it on them, but they didn't need to know that. There was one thing, though, about Jimmy's that made it my favorite spot, and the place I wanted to be most in the world that night.

"Heya flatfoot, you want the pastrami?" asked Jimmy Popodokolis, owner, manager, and maker of the best damn pastrami sandwich this side of the Atlantic Ocean. He was just dropping off another plate at the bar and turning to go back to the kitchen.

"You know me so well, Pops," I called out, watching him nod and leave. He had told me once that he'd been called Pops all of his life, and actually named the joint Jimmy's to get that to change. There are some things you should never tell a man like me. Still, we got along fine, so I suppose I got a free pass in that regard. Letting my eyes wander around the smoky interior, my eyes lit on a figure desperately trying to not make eye contact with me while he sat in a corner booth. I smiled broadly and sauntered over to the booth, plopping myself down opposite him and greeting him like an old friend. "Well hello there, Chuck! Long time, no see!"

"Ah, h-hey, Officer Finder. N-nice to, ah, see you again. What brings you around?" he replied, glancing around like a trapped rat. I suppose that description fits him rather nicely, as he'd been known to squeal with some pressure on him.

"Oh, Jimmy's pastrami, you know that. But don't call me officer, Chuckie. I'm a detective now, been off the beat for a few months." It was hard not to laugh as I saw beads of sweat show up on his forehead.

"That's, that's great, Detective. You working down at Central?"

I smiled my best imitation of a Cheshire Cat grin. "Oh, no! That's the best part! I'm working for the Feds!" I could almost hear him gulp. "Oh yeah, I can call people any time, day or night, and have them do all sorts of things. I can have people tailed, and I can have records looked up. For instance, I could have a parolee followed at all hours, and look up exactly where they're not supposed to be." His hand was drumming the table now, and I knew I was right. "And if the people tailing him were to report that he was at a place on the list of places he shouldn't be, well, I would just take one more call to get them thrown back in the slammer." In answer to my prayers, Jimmy came out and placed the pastrami and fries in front of me. I took a fry and bit it in half with a satisfying crunch, with my eyes locked on Chuck. "You understanding me, Chuckie?"

He broke. "Look, I know things. You know I do. What're you workin' on, Offi- I mean, Detective Finder? Maybe I can help you, and you can forget to make that last call? I mean, you're busy, aren't you? Well?"

I took a bite of my pastrami sandwich and looked thoughtful in order to hide my smile of success. Well, and to taste the heaven on rye that was sending intoxicating aromas right to my stomach. I savored it for a few moments, then swallowed it down. "Alright, Chuckie-boy. I might just be able to have a bit of memory loss, if you can give me something big enough to knock it out. What do you know about the theft at the museum?"

As I had agreed to deal, he had calmed down somewhat, but the mention of the museum made him tense right back up. I was worried I was going to give him a heart attack before I could finish my meal. Shakily, he replied to my question, "Nothing. I don't know nothing."

"Now, now, Charles," I said, reprimandingly. "If you don't then I'll have to keep this dinner short. I have a lot of work left to do, and a lot of calls to make..." I shot him a significant glance.

He squirmed, then his shoulders slumped, defeated. "Fine. I don't know a lot, but here's what I do know. There's been something going on. I don't know when it started, but all the real talents out there are getting snapped up by something new. They've stopped doing the stuff they're known for."

"Hmm? You mean they're getting whacked?"

He shook his head. "If they'd been rubbed out there'd be more buzz. They've just...stopped."

My eyes narrowed. "Who's on the list?"

"A bunch. Vic the Slick, the Trouble Twins, Frankie Poster...about all the muscle for hire right now..."

I whistled. His abbreviated list was a who's who of known felons. "How does that tie in with the theft?"

He glanced around and leaned in. "Word on the grapevine says that they've all pooled their talents, and the theft was their group's debut."

That didn't jive with what I knew about my female opponent, but I kept pressing. There was something else that didn't jive. "Pooled their talents? I've never head of any of them working with anyone."

He gave a brief, nervous smile. "Anyone will work with anyone, if it's worth enough. There's someone out there pulling the strings. I don't know anything about this person beyond a name. The Lady in Red."

I almost choked on the fry I was chewing on. There she was, and it was simply the perfect description of her. A lady in the truest sense, in form and bearing, and her eyecatching red dress had been dancing in my mind for hours. I leaned back. "So that's all you know?"

He nodded quite a bit, and I knew that my prey could see daylight finally. "Yeah, yeah. Except this isn't the end. I don't know what they're planning, but whatever it is, I've heard it will be vile."

I let Chuck go at that, and spent the rest of the meal in silence. A great meal and a few beers later, I headed back home feeling like I was trying to hold up that new bridge by myself considering the weight on my shoulders. A team? I'd never tussled with any of the talents, as Chuck had called them, but every cop knew of them. Some were too slippery to get charges on them, some were just tales heard from informants, but every single one was a black mark on this city. Now this dame had supposedly roped them into some kind of gang, and here I was, one lone dick trying to stand up to them. It was as crazy as the idea that we could stand on the moon.

I paused and looked up at the moon peeking through the clouds above as I stood at the door to my building. She'd given me a week, I was down to six days. I barely knew anything more than when I started this case, and didn't know where I could find out more. I would just have to give the folks at the precinct and Washington calls tomorrow, and hope that if I stirred up enough mud something would shine.

Frankly, I doubted it.

 

[Phil M. Noir]

Chapter Three

I woke up the next day, and felt wonderful.

Then I remembered the pickle I was in, and my mood turned downright rotten. I figured out that day that there's something about facing off against a high-powered criminal organization that I know next to nothing about that really grates my cheese. Sighing, I started up the percolator with some of that special coffee that my adversary had provided, reasoning to myself that I was just doing it to get a better sense of her through what type of coffee she recommended, and it had nothing to do with the fact that I just really wanted a damn good cup of coffee. Sure, it was a thin story, but I bought it. While that was working its magic, I got on the horn to Washington. After about five minutes of waiting, my friendly neighborhood G-man picked up.

"This is Mett," he said.

"Mett? Finder," I replied. If he wanted to be brusque, I could be too.

"Whatcha got?"

"A whole lot of questions, not many answers," I replied, truthfully. "First one being, why'd you put me on this case?"

I heard him breathe into the phone for a couple seconds. You know, the kind of thing a schmuck does when he's trying to figure out just how much of the truth he should include with the lie. "There was a possibility that it was going to lead to something bigger than your standard museum robbery. Why do you want to know?"

I've dealt with a lot of shady people in my time, both before and after getting a badge. Some of them are inscrutable, and no amount of pressure or dealing will get you any closer to the truth than they want you to get.

People like Mett, on the other hand, I had learned to read like a dime-store novel. "Because all of your worst fears were justified. You knew that there was going to be a gang starting up, didn't you? A gang of some of the most effective con artists, second-story men, and bruisers this side of the Mississippi, and you needed a way to track them across agencies. That's what you needed me for, isn't it, Mett? Well, guess what, word on the street is that they are fully formed and operational, and word from my office is that some dame is calling their shots, knows about my "agency," and is feeling so very threatened that she walked in here, dropped off a package declaring they had taken the amulet, and was giving me a whole week to find it, just to make it interesting! You couldn't have told me about this kind of thing earlier?" I stopped, my anger making it impossible to make any further intelligible words come out of my throat. I hadn't realized just how betrayed I had felt by Mr. Mett knowing that this pile of trash was going to come pouring down around my head and deciding not to warn me.

Mett replied in a way that showed he had more brains than I had given him credit for. "Well...you said you wanted work."

With those simple words, my anger broke, and I had to let out a small chuckle. Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I said, "So I did, so I did."

Mett picked up the conversation. "Tell me what you have, and what you need."

So I did. I told him about the multiple broken glass cases with just one item stolen. I told him about the Lady in Red, apparently one C. Sandiego, who was supposed to be running the new organization. I gave him the people that I'd heard were in it, and a couple that I wanted to check with him. I told him about the package, minus the coffee that I was about to have for purely legitimate detective purposes. In return he told me that there had been rumblings about this for a long time, originally picked up by one of Hoover's guys. He was able to confirm my suspicions on most of the names I gave him, that they were on their radar too. He didn't have any info on Ms. Sandiego, but he promised to have it checked out.

Finally I asked him the one thing about all this that had seemed very odd to me since the beginning. "If this is some big operation, why just one amulet? Wouldn't it be something, well, bigger?"

Mr. Mett exhaled. "I'm with you. All I can figure is either it was an audition or a job to make sure that the group was viable and no one would try to mess anyone else up. Possibly both. Listen, Detective Finder, it's been a little rough getting the ACME Agency off the ground, and I may have screwed up by not giving you everything, but from now on, we're working on this together. We need to find Ms. Sandiego and her crew and bring them down before they do anything more devious. Agreed?"

I acquiesced. "Agreed. You get back to me when you find out something about the broad. I need to call the local P.D." We said our goodbyes and I rang up Roger Peterson while I poured my first cup of joe.

"Detective Roger Peterson."

"Hey Rog, it's Artie. Anything break during the night?"

"Not really. The guard got back in contact with us, said he wants us to get whoever did this, normal angry rant. Says that no one will hire a guard who doesn't guard well enough."

"Well he's right about that."

"Ha! Yeah. I tried to calm him down, but it was a pain because he said he was having a hard time hearing me. He's had a ringing in his ears ever since he woke up."

"Really?" I asked. "Is that normal for chloroform?"

"Not really, but maybe for some head trauma. Could be he got kicked or his head hit the tile too hard. I told him to go get checked out by a doctor again."

"Yeah..." I trailed off. I'd gotten nominated for that promotion to detective originally because I had learned that when that little spot on the back of my neck started tingling, something was up, and it was tingling then. "Hey listen, I'll let you know if I find anything, you let me know if you do. Alright? I have to go." I knew he knew that I had thought of something, but he would also know that the best results happened when I was able to mull it over by myself.

I had finished the first cup and was most of the way through my second cup when I figured out what the back of my neck was trying to tell me. It was that old urban legend about opera singers breaking glass with their voices. My mind returned to the museum. The cases, the one with the amulet most shattered, the ones around it, less broken, nothing taken. The guard with ringing in his ears.

"Sound," I whispered to myself, afraid to say it louder in case the world noticed and figured out a way to prove me wrong. "She stole it with sound."

(...to be continued)

 

[Phil M. Noir]

Was it really possible? I wasn't a scientist, but it seemed like it was at least plausible. The better question, I supposed, was why was it needed? Glass is glass, and the cases surrounding the amulet and other antiquities wasn't anything really special. Hit them hard enough and they would break, and then it would have been easy to take the amulet and get out, since that was apparently all that was wanted. Possibility after possibility flew through my head, each feeling more ridiculous than the last. Finally I had to settle with the only one that my gut was telling me could be right: it was a test. Perhaps Mr. Mett was right, and it was an audition for the gang, and the prospective dirtbag had to show that he had the stuff. Either way, I had to get more information, and that meant that I had to hope that the only person we knew was there was a lot better earwitness than eyewitness.

It took me an hour and far more aggravation than I expected to make it to the home of Mr. James Vanderhoff, the guard who had failed to guard. As what he had said to Peterson suggested, he was at home and looking like someone who was very much unemployed, if the stubble on his chin and mess of his hair were anything to go by. He was gruff when he answered the door, but when I told him I was a detective he became much more accommodating, inviting me in and offering me something to drink, which I turned down. I had had an extra cup of coffee that I was still working off, and I was following my first possible idea. Wild horses couldn't have pulled me off my track.

"Now, Mr. Vanderhoff," I started, somewhat loudly to make sure he could hear me.

"Hey, call me Jimmy, Detective. Anyone working this case properly is a friend o' mine."

"Alright Jimmy," I continued, humoring him, "I know you got knocked out and didn't see anything..."

He interrupted again, "Yeah, that's right, I didn't see nothin'. Boy, if I coulda, though, I'd have stopped the whole thing. Taken them all on, 'cause that's what I paid to do. I ain't no coward, and I ain't incompetent."

"No one's saying you are, Jimmy," I said, trying to get the conversation back on track.

Jimmy was on a roll though. "Yeah they are. I know the words' goin' round: 'Jimmy Vanderhoff can't guard a cookie jar.' Look detective, I've been guardin' other people's junk for over twenty years, and whoever this joker was made that reputation garbage, and I still can't hear too good. I will do absolutely anything I can to help."

I doubted it would have been a good move to say that the first thing he could do to help would be to stop yammering, so I kept that to myself. "Actually, Jimmy, it's your ears I came to get the scoop on. My buddies tell me that you're hearing a ringing?"

"Yeah, yeah, like you know how you can walk by a construction site and they're usin' them jackhammers, and then you have that high-pitch whine in your ears for a while? It's like that, but worse."

"I see. I don't suppose you have any idea for something that could have caused it? That kind of a loud noise?"

Jimmy screwed his face up in what was clearly deep thought, at least for him. I let him think on that as patiently as I could, and though I hadn't been much of a praying man since I was a kid I said a silent one. Luck was with me, it seemed, though. "Y'know, now that you mention it, maybe. I thought it was just a weird dream I had while I was out, but I do remember a sound. Really loud, like a whistle or something."

"Someone whistling loudly, you mean?"

"Nah, louder, and, I dunno, more pure? Like steam, maybe. Yeah, like a train whistle, but really loud and close. But how would they get a train engine in there?"

I managed to resist the urge to call him a nincompoop, because he really had been helpful, even if he wasn't the brightest bulb. Rather than stay there as I tried to figure out what the sound was, I graciously excused myself. After another ten minutes of listening to him go on about how I had to make the criminal pay, I actually managed to leave and head back to my office. All the way back I was going over what could have made a sound like the one Jimmy had described, and at the volume it would have taken to shatter all those cases. A simple whistle would have had that rattling sound that they have, and Jimmy wouldn't have thought of it as pure. A steam whistle was possible, I supposed, but one loud enough would have required a pretty big apparatus, I figured, and that would have left some kind of mark on the ground. No instrument I'd heard of would be able to make a sound loud enough to cause that kind of effect, either.

I hadn't made much headway when I entered my office to the sound of my phone ringing. Rushing to it I picked it up and breathlessly answered.

The voice of Mr. Mett greeted my ears. "Ah, good, I was about to give up on reaching you. First thing you're getting after this case is a secretary, got it?"

"Got it," I replied, sitting down at my desk. "I wouldn't mind that at all. I could have used one before..."

"Don't get petulant with me, Arthur. I've got some dirt on this Sandiego lady for you. Got something handy to write it down with?"

"Hold on...yeah," I replied, snagging a pencil and notepad from my drawer. "Hit me."

"We have files on one Carmen Sandiego in the system. Looks like she was an orphan, no records on her parents. The records come from the Golden Gate Girls' School from about 20 years ago. We're still digging up everything we can, but it'd probably be faster for you to go there yourself. Looks like it's right across the bay from you. Here's the address."

He gave me the location and I scribbled it down. I could probably make it there before dinner if I booked it and got lucky with public transit, but I had to hurry. I thanked him for the information and hung up, grabbing my trenchcoat as well as my hat as I left. The clouds outside made the sky as obscured as this case's solution, but as I walked out into the street, I thought I could just barely see a ray of light.

(To be continued...)

 

[Phil M. Noir]

Chapter Four

It was about five in the afternoon when I finished my trek up from the bus stop to the somewhat rickety but large building that was on the hill looking over the bay like a nurturing but stern mother. I could see a couple young girls being herded in by a thin woman in her sixties from where they had been playing on a swing set out back that had seen better days. The old lady noticed me, and eyed me suspiciously as I jogged up to the front porch. I flashed my identification, but to her credit she asked to see it again before answering my questions.

Apparently satisfied, she handed it back to me. "Alright, Detective," she began, her tone all business. "Can't say as I've ever heard of this ACME Agency of yours, but I suppose there's a lot goin' on in the city proper that I don't hear much about. Would ya like to come in? I was just about to serve the girls some chili and cornbread, and there should be some left over. We can look at the records and you can ask your questions then."

I was surprised, to say the least. "Ma'am? I mean, I appreciate it, but you don't even know what I'm here for."

She looked over her shoulder as she led me inside. "I can't pretend I'm perfect, but I've tried to live my life right, and I only go in to the city when it's necessary. This place is my home, and these girls are both my friends and my family. I can't think of a reason why any agency would be lookin' to me for anything I've done, and I'm not elsewhere enough to be lookin' to me for somethin' I haven't done." We walked into the kitchen where the mouthwatering smell of fresh chili and cornbread waited, and I hoped the sudden growl my stomach gave off wasn't too noticeable as she continued to talk. "But this house has been home to a lot of girls."

As if on cue, nine young girls came down the stairs in what I can only call a quiet stampede. They were giggling and whispering to each other, but they all stopped cold when they saw me. Most looked confused, some looked at me with fear.

"Don't worry girls," said the lady, her tone suddenly so full of warmth and caring that I almost wished I'd been her kid growing up. "This is a nice man working with the police, and he's asked me to help him figure some things out for him. You all know how good I am at solving puzzles, after all. Like when you keep losing Mr. Bear, right, Esther?" She tickled a girl who couldn't have been more than five and was holding on to a teddy bear by the paw. The girl giggled, and the other girls smiled, and just like that their worries were gone. "Now then, lets get us all some chili and cornbread, hmm?"

As she filled up their bowls she turned back to me to continue our conversation quietly, her tone once more cool and businesslike. "This isn't just a school, as I'm sure you've gathered. We're an orphanage and a shelter as well. I've been here for forty years, and I've heard more tales of woe than I care count. I do my best to teach these girls good and proper ways, to read and write and cook and clean. Manners and math, and the Good Book." She sighed, pausing a moment before collecting herself and pouring chili for us. "But a lot of these girls have had rough lives even before they can remember, and some will likely fall from the path of righteousness later, and I honestly can't say it's their fault. It's the lives they were born into. So, what's a detective doing coming to the Golden Gate Girls' School? To look up information on one of my lambs that has gone astray."

Before I could confirm that her reasoning was flawless, or in fact before I could pick my mental jaw off the floor, she had turned away and placed her bowl as well as mine at the large dining room table where all the other girls were seated. Hurriedly I joined them, and barely managed to catch myself from sitting before the rest. They were all still standing, and suddenly I found my hands grasped by little Esther's and the caretaker beside me. For the second time that day I found myself sending off a little prayer, this time not of my own volition. Inside I chuckled that maybe this case was turning me, a guy who hadn't been to a church in over a decade, into a religious man. The lady said that she and I would actually be eating in the study so that she could help me with my problem, and made them all promise to be good and respectful. As we left she shut the door to the dining room and paused. After a moment, the sound of laughter could be heard quietly through the door, and I caught her smiling.

"I tell them to be good while I'm gone, but I think I'd almost be more worried if they actually were. Alright Detective, let's hear your questions."

"Well first, ma'am, I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

She blinked at me and then chuckled, managing to erase twenty years from her face with that simple gesture. "Oh my, here I am teachin' manners and I've forgotten my own. I'm Mrs. Margaret Weston, and I helped found and run the Golden Gate Girls' School, though when I started I was just an assistant."

It's not often I get to enjoy talking to someone in my line of work, but her smile was contagious and I found myself forgetting the stress that had been piling on me since starting this case. "Well, Mrs. Weston, unfortunately your excellent reasoning earlier was correct. I have reason to believe that one of the girls formerly here is involved in a case I'm looking into. Do you recall a girl named Carmen Sandiego?"

We had sat in what Mrs. Weston referred to as the study, which was a room with a fireplace, a few old padded chairs, a small table, and a good number of bookcases. I'm glad we did, because I think if we'd still been walking she may have spilled her food everywhere. She had gone as white as a sheet for a moment, and her hand was shaking like a leaf as she gently placed her spoon back into her bowl.

"I do, Detective Finder. I pray every night before I fall asleep for all the girls that have come to this place, past and present, but I pray for her especially. She was one of the brightest girls I ever took in, read every book I could get her, and she had the fire in her. The world was at her feet. The trouble was, she knew it too."

(to be continued, maybe later today)

 

[Phil M. Noir]

Mrs. Weston leaned back, her food forgotten. Her eyes took on that look of someone who's not looking at a where, but a when. I kept my trap shut rather than press her. Whatever she was about to say, she was digging it out of somewhere deep.

"Carmen showed up at our door alone, clothed in dirty and torn rags. I remember thinkin' even then there was something special about the girl. It was like she shined with an inner light, that no amount of dirt would ever cover up. She looked about four, but we never could tell for sure, Ms. Lake and me."

"Ms. Lake?" I had to cut in. "She was the head of the school then?"

"Oh yes. Antonia Lake. My husband left me a widow when I was young, and rather than try to find someone good enough to replace him in my heart, I took up with Ms. Lake and her quest to help the orphan girls of San Francisco, seein' as how I almost felt like an orphan myself. We'd been around for a few years, but Carmen...I had never known a child like her."

"You said you didn't know how old she was?"

"Nope. Don't even know what her actual name was. We called her Carmen because Antonia had seen that opera not long before, and thought that she could look the part when she was older. Carmen chose her own last name of Sandiego when she was looking over a map of California, learnin' geography, and who were we to argue."

"Did she acquire a middle name?"

"Isabella. Heh, got that from Queen Isabella of Spain in a history book. I swear, that girl had the most voracious appetite for knowledge that I have ever witnessed. She tore through our book selection as soon as we taught her her letters."

I scribbled down her middle name in my notebook. It seemed unimportant, but I've seen cases get broken by smaller details.

"Detective, may I ask what crime she's been connected with?"

I frowned. Sure, it was unlikely that telling the old dame would cause any hubbub, but the trick to catching crooks is to make sure you find all their cards before you play all of yours. Still, in cards or in an investigation, there were times you had to go with your gut and press your luck. "We think she was the brains behind the Egyptian amulet heist at the museum. You heard about it, ma'am?"

She sighed, wearily. "I may not go into the city much, young man, but I still get the paper, even here. Well, at least it wasn't a killing, and something like that would fit her sensibilities more."

"Oh?" I asked, leading her.

"Yes. Like I said, she loved knowledge. Books. History especially. She was always comin' up to me or Ms. Lake and tellin' us about some great fact she'd just learned in a book. She'd get real insistent about it too, if we were too busy to pay proper attention. It was like she was tryin' to make sure we learned just as much as she was. Now I think history is all well an' good, but sometimes the present is just more important, don't you think, Detective?"

"Yes, ma'am," I replied. "So she had an intense love of history. Was there anything else about her habits you remember?" I asked, trying to get her mind back on track.

"Oh yes. She's the reason I'm so good at solving puzzles now. Once she was a little older, somewhere around eleven by our reckonin', she got her hands on some of that Sherlock Holmes that that British man wrote. Then she found Ms. Lake's collected works of Edgar Allen Poe. For a while she was absolutely obsessed with anything to do with solving mysteries and deciphering codes and clues. She loved playin' games with me and Antonia, so we'd hide things and leave clues where they were, or come up with riddles for her to solve. Still, bright child that she was, it wasn't long before they weren't challenging enough for her. So we reversed the roles, and seein' her face light up while we were stumped on one of her codes was a joy. There were even a few times that she completely fooled us, near the end."

"The end?" I prompted, scratching a few more notes down on my pad.

"Yes. It was a little after her, well, we called it her fourteenth birthday. One day she didn't come down for breakfast, and when I went up to check on her, I found that most of her things were gone and she'd left a note. It thanked us for sheltering her, but she couldn't rely on us any more. She had a plan, and she was going to enact it. She'd also make sure to pay us back some day."

"That was all that she left for you? And no contact since?" I asked, and I couldn't keep the suspicion out of my voice.

The dame noticed, and her eyes narrowed. "That was all, Detective. And no, I haven't heard from her since. I loved that child like I love all these girls, but no matter how much I loved her, and yes, admired her spirit, those who break the law must be punished, and I would not harbor her. Now, I've given you plenty of information, so if you're done insinuating that I would help a fugitive..."

I held up my hands, and at that moment I felt like that woman was holding me at gunpoint with her words. "My apologies, Mrs. Weston. I just need to cover all the angles. I'm about as certain as I can be that Carmen Sandiego is behind this theft, and my full focus is on finding that amulet, rather than conversational correctness."

She glared a bit more, and I tried not to show that I felt like a schoolboy about to get his fingers rapped by a yardstick, which truth be told was an experience I had had all too often growing up. Then her gaze softened, and her face showed just how tired her soul must be. "Of course, Detective. I'm sorry, I'm still coming to terms with the truth. You can take her file, it's in the office, filed under 'S', but I don't think it'll show you much more than what I've told you. Now, not to be unkind, but I'd like to finish my meal in peace."

"Of course, Mrs. Weston," I replied, scooping the last of my chili into my mouth. "Thank you very much for your hospitality. You really have been a great help." I didn't know if that was true, but I at least had a little bit more to go on with who this Carmen broad was. As I left to go to the office, I looked back. Mrs. Weston was staring into the cold fireplace, and hadn't touched her spoon. Closing the door gently, I left the old woman to her memories, got the marked file, and left. It was a little before six, and a light drizzle had started to fall. I tucked the file under my arm, turned my overcoat up against the rain, and started the downhill walk to the bus station. Day Two was rapidly drawing to a close, and I had no leads on the amulet besides how it was maybe stolen, but at least I knew more about who might have had it done.

That was better than nothing.

(To be continued...)