The Case of the Missing Case
By John Henry Carrozza
Good night for a murder, I thought, as I stared through the smoke
of a sagging cigarette into the night from my office window. The fog was
thick as mustard, the low clouds hanging like loaves of bread above the
tomato-colored neon sign that cried "Eats" into the dark city air, which was
cool and crisp as lettuce. Good night for a ham sandwich, I thought, and
then I heard a tapping at the door.
I hadn't had a case in weeks, so I assumed the visitor to be my
landlord, for whom I had no bread to offer.
"Come in," I beckoned, still facing the city street, collecting my
thoughts and letting them go, as if merely breathing the din of a tired city,
which I was.
Behind me I heard the door open softly, click itself shut and then
the rapping of footsteps across the linoleum of my office floor.
"What can I do for you?" I asked, then drew on a short cigarette.
"The money," said a deep voice.
"I haven't got your money," I replied, letting my hand slip into the
pocket of my raincoat (private dicks always wear raincoats), my fingers
wrapping quietly about a .38.
"Then I'm afraid I'll have to kill you," the voice said.
I put out the cigarette on the window sill as I blew a ring of
smoke and then said cooly, "Over my dead body." I spun around and drew
my gun, firing three times into his chest before he could react. Limply, he
fell to the ground, his revolver landing on the desk beside a half-empty
glass of bourbon. I slid the weapon into my pocket and turned once more to
the city lights, pulled out another cigarette, lit it, and drew in a deep breath.
"Yes, are you Mr. Macbeth?"
The cigarette leapt from my mouth and performed a double-
summersault with one and a half twists before landing in a puddle beside
the leaking radiator and receiving perfect tens from the stapler, a paper clip
container and yesterday's Daily News, and an eight point five from an aging
paperback copy of Milton's Paradise Lost. The extremely feminine voice
took me by such surprise that by the time I knew what I was doing I had
recited ten Hail Mary's and was well into the Apostles' Creed.
At last, I turned from a half-open window and greeted a half-open
blouse. My eyes moved slowly from the visible space between her breasts
to a charming gold necklace bearing a cross and a small gleaming diamond
to the base of her slender neck to her pursed, smiling lips to her penetrating
blue eyes.
"Mr. Macbeth?" She repeated. "Are you alright?"
"Er, I...um..." I was unable to conjugate the verb 'to be' as
emotion overwhelmed me. This dame had the most beautiful earlobes this
side of the Galapagos Archipelago. My heart was pounding out the verses
to "Love, Love Alone," but in the excitement inserting the chorus from
"Oklahoma!"
"I have something for you, and I thought you should have it right
away," she said rhythmically - in six-eighths time, with an accent on the
fifth beat.
She set a file folder she was carrying onto my desk, but I did not
look down. My eyes were transfixed upon hers, and hers were transfixed
upon a man juggling imaginary wildebeests across the street. She continued
talking, but all of my attention was drawn to her countenance … or should I
say countessenance? Eventually she turned to go, her gait to the door
resembling an entire samba line, and I realized that I could spend an entire
weekend in Geneva with her left thigh, although I imagined I would have a
hard time getting through customs.
For several moments after the door snapped shut behind her, and
her mottled shadow diminished beyond the wired glass, I stood a gibbering
dummy, imagining the wonderful and illegal things we could do together,
until my shirt sleeve had been entirely devoured by the electric pencil
sharpener and I awoke with a start, my head pinned to the coffee-stained
desk.
Those eyes, I thought...those legs...that face...that...that case!
Suddenly reality returned, like my brother Diablo the time he
escaped from prison, only without an iron door handcuffed to its wrist. I
had not a clue as to what the siren had said, and now I was responsible for
whatever problem she had come to hire me for. I didn't even know how to
reach her...or was she to reach me? Wait! I suddenly remembered she had
left something with me. I scanned my desk frantically for anything I had
not seen before. There was a pen and pencil set with the names Eudora and
Stanley Goldberg engraved upon it, but I remembered that it was only a
wedding gift I had received by mistake. A pile of folders caught my
attention, particularly the one on top which was blue and pink and read
"Visit Beautiful Auschwitz - Home of the $2.50 Broccoli Quiche." An
inspection of the folder's contents turned up only the morning’s mail, which
included three bills and twelve letters from bill collectors. Soon I had
searched the entire desk but could not find anything marked "Top Secret" or
resembling a case file, except for a collection of clippings I had stolen from
the Federal Bureau relating to a fire plug arsonist, which I kept on my desk
to make it look as if I were working.
I wanted to cry, but private detectives have a reputation to uphold,
so I drained the remainder of a bottle of bourbon instead and smoked a pack
of cigarettes - after removing the plastic wrap, of course. Later that night,
still feeling dejected, I lifted myself wearily from my rolling chair and
dragged myself down the street to Eddie's Bar, which I frequent (some
would say constant), pausing only to lean against a flickering streetlamp
and sing "The Days of Wine and Roses" before completing the three-block
journey to the place the locals call "the joint," and which the tourists call
"the place the locals call 'the joint'."
As I sat at the counter, conducting experiments on the effects of
global warming on ice flow patterns in my bourbon with a swizzle stick, I
was joined by a long-time friend, Bernie Strudel, a student at New York
University for the past ten years whose only accomplishment is an ongoing
affair with his ethics professor.
"Mike," he said. Everybody calls me Mike, even though my
given name is Bethuma. "You seem bent, frazzled, worn-out, wasted, long
in the face, depressed, glum, manic, at sea without an anchor..."
"Bernie," I interrupted. "Yeah, thanks for noticing."
"So, what's the trouble?" he pursued.
"It's this dame," I confessed. "She comes into the office today.
Got a body like a rocket. Lays some kind of heavy case on me, first I've
had in months, only I'm too busy thinking about what's in her pockets ... and
not just her pockets but her purse, and before long I'm into her kitchen
cabinets, about to look behind the Quaker Oat Meal, when I realize she's
gone and I've got no case, no clue ... not even a name."
"What'd she look like?" my friend asked politely.
"Like a goddess."
"Sounds like Elaine Babettesky, my ethics professor. Only
goddess I know. She have a necklace ... gold cross with a diamond on it?"
"Yeah, how did you know?"
"Walks like a samba line?"
"Exactly!"
"That's Elaine alright."
"How do I find her?" I asked excitedly, my mind exploding in
heinous thought.
"Well, when classes are out, like they are now, being that it's
August, and well, of course there are no classes in August, except for
summer school, but she doesn't teach summer school ..."
"Just tell me where she is!" I screamed, attracting the attention of
the entire bar, even though there was nobody else in it.
"Alright, calm down. She runs a travel agency on Fifth Street,
just down from your office. Same building in fact. Specializes in German
concentration camps, although this time of year those tours get booked up
pretty quick."
"Of course!" I cried. "That explains the Auschwitz folder!" I
could feel my blood boil in anticipation, my toes curl in ecstasy, my lower
intestine inviting my spleen over for crepes.
"Wait a second," I suddenly ventured. "If she works in the same
building, how come I've never seen her before?"
"Back entrance," Bernie explained, and we finished our drinks
joyfully, with much singing and dancing, although after two rounds of pas
de deux we were both exhausted and collapsed in a barrel of cheese sticks.
I woke up the next morning with a terrible headache, which prompted me to
remove the giant c-clamp from my head. I must have gotten smashed
senseless and raided Lupo's Hardware Store, an unfortunate ritual I seem to
perform every time I'm smashed senseless. First thing I do, I decided, after
I get myself out of this chicken-wire suit, is do some checking up on the
bombshell named Elaine and try to figure out what she wanted me to do for
her.
I took a cab down to the university, where for twenty bucks the
file clerk let me have a look at Miss Babettesky's resume, and for another
twenty he let me open it up and read it.
"Mind if I borrow this for a couple of days?" I asked the seedy
clerk, tormenting him psychologically with my eyebrows (a trick I learned
from Freud's book Oedipus, Eyebrows, and You).
"Sure," he replied casually, then added schemingly: "But it'll cost
you."
"Yeah, well how about this," I offered. "You let me walk out of
here with the dossier and I don't let your boss know how much I had to pay
to get a look at it."
He winced. "Alright," he gave in, and I left with the folder. I was
glad he saw my line of reasoning. I had a revolver in my pocket, and I sure
would have hated to use it. Especially in that suit.
Bernie had given me the name of Elaine's boyfriend, Alan Alda
(just a coincidence). He worked construction on the lower east side, near
the docks. When I got there, the foreman said I could talk him for twenty
bucks. For twenty more, he said, I could even take him to dinner and a
movie; but I declined, as there was nothing decent showing.
Alan was a scrawny man - well-groomed, wore glasses, and had a
class ring from Princeton. Not the kind of guy I expected to find wearing a
hard hat and a tool belt. When I learned that his job was to catch falling
rivets in a bucket of sand I became more at ease.
"So you and Elaine are pretty close, huh?" I asked between puffs
on a Lucky Strike.
"Yeah," he confessed. "Once she even let me see her without her
glasses on."
"She wears glasses?"
"What?!" He scoffed. "That two timing..."
"Look here," I cautioned. "It's not what you think, see. I'm a
private detective."
"Oh yeah?"
"Do you mind answering a few questions for me?"
"Sure," he said. "But it'll cost you."
"Now hold on, see. I just gave my last twenty to the foreman."
"Well then I'm afraid I can't help you." He turned to go.
"Hold on," I called after him. "Do you take a credit card?"
"American Express."
"How about Diner's Club?"
"It'll do." He pulled a stamp machine and a carbon from his belt,
and after I had my receipt, we got down to business.
"What's her favorite movie?"
"The Sorrow and the Pity."
"She ever have an allergic reaction to chives?"
"No."
"How about her mother or father?"
"Yeah. She does get a runny nose whenever her mother calls."
"Does she play backgammon often?"
"From time to time."
"She any good?"
"She's better at parchesi."
"Does she have any pets?"
"Yes, an anteater named Hitler."
"Hitler?"
"No, I don't believe he had any pets."
"I see. Where was she on the night of October 25th, 1963?"
"I don't know."
"1964?"
"I don't know." He began sweating about the brow. I could see
that I was finally breaking him.
"Who does her laundry?"
"I don't know." His eyes began darting about nervously.
"What's the capital of Paraguay?"
"I don't know!" He screamed, falling to his knees. "Please, I'm
telling you everything I know! I'm begging you!"
The poor man was unravelled. I had gotten almost all of the
information I needed.
"Just one more thing," I said, and his eyes begged for mercy.
"Are you a Presbyterian?"
He froze for an instant. "How...how did you know?"
"Nevermind," I said, grabbing him by the arm. "I'm taking you in
for the murder of Rabbi Samuel Bekenstein."
"What!" he shrieked. "No, it wasn't me! I swear it wasn't me. I
was in the sauna. It was Johnson. Johnson said he would take care of it! I
didn't kill anybody!"
"Johnson, eh?" I let him go suddenly, falling to the ground. "Just
as I suspected," I said as I stood up and dusted off my coat. It was a risky
ploy, teasing him with the backgammon question, but it paid off.
Later that evening I was sitting behind my desk throwing darts at
my toes (fortunately, I am a very poor shot), when there came a knock at the
door.
"Come in," I beckoned, hoping he would take the bait. He
did...hook, line and sinker.
The door opened and in stepped a shadowy figure.
"You must be Mr. Johnson," I said. "I've been expecting you."
"Johnson N. Johnson's the name," he said in a deep, raspy voice.
"What can I do for you?"
"Have a seat," I said. "I'm also expecting somebody else. Care
for a cigarette?"
"No thanks," he said, sitting down uneasily in a leather armchair,
one of a pair I found at an auction house on twenty-first street. They had
supposedly belonged to Mussolini's cousin Terrance, who won them in a
raffle. They were thought to have perished in a house fire that took the life
of his French maid, Bridgette, but it is now believed she sacrificed her life
to save the chairs, owing to an apron string melted to one of the pillows.
"How about a drink," I pursued. "Bourbon? Water? Bourbon-
water?"
"No, I'm fine."
"Would you like to dance?"
"No, thanks. I'm trying to quit."
"Good for you. I've been trying to quit for years. It's just that
every time I get nervous, I have to break into a waltz."
Just then came another knock at the door.
"Come in," I offered again, toying with the odds that the same
ploy would work twice.
The door opened and Miss Babettesky sambaed into the room,
then stopped abruptly when she saw the figure seated to her right.
"Johnson?" She queried.
"Babettesky?" The man stood suddenly, taken aback. "I thought
you were dead," he muttered.
"I thought you were a German Shepherd," Elaine replied.
"I got over it."
"So did I."
I interrupted. "Now look here, kids. I know you're both
wondering why you're here, so let me explain."
They both stared at me as if I were that machine down at the plaza
that clucks and lays an egg for a quarter. The difference is I charge fifty
cents.
"Have a seat," I offered them both.
Johnson obliged, but Elaine was stubborn.
"I'd rather stand," she said.
"Look sweetheart, this may take a while," I informed her.
"In that case I really should take a shower and have my hair
done."
The thought of her having her hair done temporarily blurred my
vision, but I regained control quickly.
"Please, sweetheart," I said. "Sit down." She did.
"You see, I'm afraid you picked the wrong dick to work on your case, Miss
Babettesky."
"What case?" She asked innocently.
"It's too late for that now, sweetheart. You see, I know who really
killed Baron Howzschevitz, and it wasn't your brother Lenny, as you
expected me to believe."
"What are you talking about? Who's Lenny? Who's Baron
Howzschevitz?"
"Don't play dumb with me Elaine. Or should I say...Helga."
"What?"
"Helga Meinkampf, I believe. Your first mistake was the
Auschwitz brochure you mistakenly left on my desk, instead of the dossier
on Howard Lemke, which I was to have traced to the library on Baker
Avenue, who's librarian once charged your brother two dollars for a twenty-
cent late fee."
"What are you talking about?" the dame blurted out. "That was
only your mail that was delivered downstairs by mistake."
"Try explaining that to Mr. Johnson here, sweetheart. Or should I
say...Dr. Donnis V. Oberfield of Lisbon Cryogenics and Frozen Dinners,
Inc."
"What?!" Johnson screamed. "This is an outrage!"
"Sit down Dr. Oberfield. Or should I say ... Mrs. Viola
Hammerstein."
At that the man began crying. "It was a setup," he wailed.
"Honest. I don't even own a bicycle pump."
"You're insane!" the dame shouted.
"Am I?" I asked pointedly. "What about the box of raisinettes?"
"No!"
"That's right Miss Meinkampf. Or should I say ... Imogene
Carnepesci, Italian ice broker and professional hockey player."
"That's a lie!" she wailed. "It was only a summer league!"
The room became silent for several long moments, and as the two
sat in matching chairs, sobbing quietly, I began my story.
"You see, I used to play cards with a guy named Lucky Luke.
They called him Lucky because he had never been struck by lightning more
than once while wearing women's underwear. His mother passed away
when he was twelve, and then again when he was thirty-eight, for tax
purposes. She kept a scrapbook in high school, and one photo is of her and
some friends at a skating rink in Jersey playing canasta for stakes. Before
the depression they played for steaks and gravy, but that's another story.
Anyway, you see, one of the dames in the picture goes on to become a
dancer at Lincoln Center, only she was arrested for doing a fox-trot before
the season opened. But this guy bails her out, you see, as a favor to her
father, who once lent him change for cigarettes at a diner in Southridge.
The guy turns out to be Horace Leedy, a banker turned shoplifter who lives
in Queens. What he didn't know was that his cousin was actually the Queen
of England in the eighteenth century. As fate would have it, he never found
out, and eventually was shot by the manager of a seven-eleven for trying to
smuggle out a pack of sliced ham by dropping it and then pretending to kick
it accidentally as he tried to pick it up, all the way out the door. The same
trick once worked with a '78 Oldsmobile Cutlass, so he figured what the
hell. Ironically, the store manager turned out to be the same guy who ran
the Oldsmobile lot, and he would be damned if he'd fall for the same trick
twice."
"So, what has this got to do with us?" Johnson interrupted.
"Well, you see, there was a mutual friend named Bertrand
Pearlman, a shoe salesman with a rash. He believed in two things: that
there was a God, and that there was no God - both because of his wife
Helen, who after making love exquisitely would always lash him with a wet
herring and yodel 'I Gotta Be Me.' One day he was on his way downtown
to have his hat blocked when he was kidnapped by a group of thugs who
worked for Leo Capone, a blacksheep brother of Al, who wanted to be a
gangster all his life until he discovered that you had to steal and shoot
people, so he became a violinist instead. Meanwhile, in London, you, Miss
Carnepesci, hit Miss Chartreuse with the candlestick in the conservatory."
The dame gasped.
"And you, Mrs. Hammerstein, waited with the getaway car."
Elaine stood up and produced a machine gun from between her
breasts.
"That's all very clever, Mr. Macbeth," she said, pointing the gun at
my face. "But you forgot one thing."
Now it was my turn to be at a loss.
"It's true the silverware set was missing a ladle, but did you
actually measure the drapes?"
I froze, suddenly realizing the mistake I had made. "So
Kierkegard was right." I said. "The eggnog was pasteurized in France."
"You catch on fast."
"So, it wasn't you in the basement at Lucci's after all, but
Dominic. And the imported tie clip..."
"Vinnies."
"Then that means it was actually Johnson who killed Baron
Howzschevitz, not at his home in Paddington, but at the theater in Minsk."
I glanced in Johnson's direction and Elaine turned as well, to find
the man holding a .45, his face now in shadow.
"So, you figured it out," he said.
"Johnson?" Elaine questioned. "It was you?"
"Guess again sweetheart," he said, and suddenly reached up and
pulled a rubber mask from his face, revealing a goldfinch perched in a tiny
chair with a remote control.
"Goldy!" the woman screamed, and suddenly the place was
ablaze with gunfire as both parties took aim upon each other.
When the smoke finally cleared away, I crept from beneath my
desk to find Elaine's body in a tossled, bloody heap beside one chair, the
bird expended beside the other. Too bad, I thought. The dame had the
markings of a great secondary character. And I had never even seen her
wearing her glasses.
I walked past my desk and opened the window, breathing in the
din of a tired city. Good night for a murder, I thought as I lit a cigarette. A
man across the street was juggling imaginary loaves of french bread, and I
suddenly had the craving for a ham sandwich.
