Chicago Typewriter

2.

Ebony Gardens loomed over stone walls and old hedges. Its turrets looked positively medieval, but plenty of garden snaked through the posh quarter acre. Our car pulled in behind two police cars already there, but I said, "Jones. Drop me around back."

"It's Williams."

"Yeah. I knew that." I didn't. Everybody in uniform looks uniform to me.

Williams drove me to the alley, and that's where I started detecting. They tell me that when I'm on the job, I'm prickly, but it's just that I concentrate hard. I don't like interruptions. In this case, I unshipped my notepad and a pencil and made a sketch of a tire tread impression by the back gate. The gate itself was ajar. I jotted a note about some scrape impressions in the dirt. Eventually, I sauntered toward the house, eyes roving. 

Close to the fancy, windowy back door, I slowed. Two broad wooden steps ascended to the house itself. I bent low. Flecks of blood arced there, slightly smeared, clotted brown.

My stomach growled. It must be mealtime in the normal universe.

As I traced the blood past the threshold to the mansion interior, I heard Sergeant O'Rourke boom distantly, "Where'd Lucy go? Lucy?" Somewhere in the house, a woman sobbed. Rich wood flooring gleamed with varnish.

The bloody traces grew more distinct as I tracked them in, but they did not resolve into foot-shaped prints. The shape resembled an oval fencepost, dipped in blood, placed and dragged, placed and dragged. Around a corner and through a doorway, I beheld a library. The posh space was full of blue uniforms shuffling about. I lost the oval traces under tracks of mud from the multitude of my apish brethren. 

The body occupied the center of room, face down in a bloody carpet stain. A white-bearded male. Shiny shoes. Bullet holes spoiled an embroidered smoking jacket. A fireplace poker lay near the outstretched hand of the dead man. "It was a nice carpet," I observed.

"Lucy! There you are!" boomed O'Rourke. He bore down on me like he was an ox and I was a sheaf of wheat. Instead of chomping me, though, he thrust a document folder at me. Gingerly, I took it.

"You shouldn't have," I said.

"Huh?" He eyed me with suspicion.  In our several years together, he has never once responded to my sense of humor. I'm not sure if that's a commentary on him or a commentary on me.  The folder contained a stack of photographs. O'Rourke forged ahead. "The widow just went through 'em, Lucy. The insurance company made her take 'em." 

 I flipped through the glossies. Diamond necklace. Half a dozen rings. More rings. Another necklace. Wrist bangles (bracelets, that's the word). And a tiara.

"They're pictures of the stolen items," O'Rourke said, puffing up his already-formidable barrel chest.

I thrust the folder back at him. "Thank you, Sergeant. Have copies made. Distribute 'em to the local jewelry stores and pawn shops."

"Yes, sir!"

"Any witnesses?"

"No, sir. The wife was at breakfast with friends. She came home to this."

"Ouch. All right, shoo. I have to count bullet holes. Tell these other lunkheads to skedaddle, too."

A half an hour of relative quiet descended. The uniforms cleared out. Somebody took the widow away. I shifted the body and did a few things some might call gruesome, but in the end I knew the number of bullet holes, front and back. I inventoried pocket contents. I found more bullet holes in walls and book spines. At last, I looked up from my work to find everybody in the doorway, watching. They looked like a prairie dog colony on high alert.

"You can call the coroner, now," I said. I tried to get through the mass of uniforms. "Now for the robbery part. The jewels were upstairs?"

"Yeah. In a strongbox," said a guy whose name I should know.

I checked upstairs. Fancy bedrooms. Fancier bathroom. I tracked the officers' mud into a bedroom. A pair of candlesticks were on the floor. A chifforobe leaned awry, bashed open with the big doors hanging by one hinge only. This carpet was nice, too. I saw a spot on it.

I bent close.

I heard clomping coming up the steps, heavy, but bouncy, too. It could only be the chief. I bent further, almost putting my face on the floor. I inhaled.

"Lucy? What're you doing? Church is on Sunday." The chief chuckled.

I closed my eyes, savoring.

Chief Largo stood. I figured his smile was turning into a frown. "Well?" he said, "Whattaya got?"

I pulled up to my feet and spread my hands. "No proof."

The chief's grin came back. "But ya got a hunch, I bet."

"Three guys is my guess. Iggy Iglesias almost for sure. He stepped in the blood with his club foot. Dragged it all over the place. Hack Sawyer, too."

"Hack Sawyer! How d'you figger?"

"Oh, um, how did I? Well, firstly, judging by the shape that piece of furniture is in, it was somebody strong, tall, and mean. Secondly, he's about seven feet tall and greases his hair."

"Yeah. So?"

"So, there are greasy finger-smears over the door lintel. Tall guys often reach up to feel doorways so they don't bonk their heads."

"Good, good. You're earning your salary, today. Who's number three?"

"Not much of a clue; sorry, Chief. Boss type, though. Casual. He smokes a funny tobacco. Must be imported. Smells sort of fruity. I bet it was him and Iggy that killed the guy downstairs."

"Why?"

"Hack Sawyer would've carried the strongbox, so his arms were full. The other two had Chicago typewriters. The mister downstairs was shot up on the front side. He fell, probably dead already. Then a different guy shot him in the back. About eight bullets at close range."

"Gangsters," the chief spat. His face twisted into a landscape of contempt and hate. His eyes focused out to the air, not at me. Whew. A second later, he pounded downstairs, shouting, "Mahoney! Gariboldi!"

I don't know how he keeps all those names straight. I guess that's why he's the chief and I'm just a detective.