bout de papier, Vol. 31, No. 3 (2021), pp. 44–47
From the casebook of Shamus Dikk, PI (December 2019)
It was a Wednesday night, cloudy and cold. The few working streetlamps weren’t trying very hard to push back the shadows. The sax player who follows me around was moaning a blue note, about a Pantone 3591C. A tall thin man in a shabby black raincoat and fedora staggered out of an alleyway, came up to me and mumbled, “Stay away from Trans Fats”. I told him I hadn’t been near a pool hall in months. It was my doctor. He’d heard the line before.
WE SPLIT UP. He walked into a streetlamp, which went out. I went right around the corner into Dystopia Road and entered the first doorway, into the joint owned by my old friend Oscar Meniscus. A door-to-door glockenspiel salesman as a boy, he continued his interest in music by forming a joint tribute band for Warren Zevon and Jimmy Buffett, which he called Warren Buffett. Informed that the name was already in use, he opened an all-you-can-eat bar and grill called The Buffet(t) and installed his group as the house band. It was a big hit with big eaters and the chronically deaf. It was also popular with the police for its role in suppressing neighbourhood youth gangs. No one under 30 was willing to loiter within range of such perennial B-siders as “Wasting Away in Dry Martiniville” (the band’s first and last entry in Wall Street Rock) or “Werewolves of Humdrum”.
Oscar had called me that afternoon, worried about a booking from one of the city’s fat cats, Tiptilt “Turk” McGurk, who’d wanted to rent the club for a private event. The money was good, so Oscar agreed, although the man was the kind of major-league financial hustler who gave wolverines a bad name. McGurk brought in his own band, a quartet called Tuba Zumba. I googled them and found a YouTube clip of four porky men in brightly coloured Lycra and lederhosen, murdering “The Ride of the Valkyries” on tubas while gyrating with surprisingly good synchronization. After washing out my eyes and ears, I sent my partner Effie on ahead to get the lay of the land while I did some research, saying I would join her later. Effie was a mustached six-foot crossdresser in a Balenciaga gown and John Fluevog shoes. She’d fit in well at Oscar’s, which was famously progressive..
Oscar called me because he’d heard from his contacts in the underworld that something heavy was going to go down at the club that night. No details, except that it was all about payback for lives McGurk had ruined. Oscar passed this on to his client, who just laughed and said he wasn’t worried. The threats were nothing new, he travelled with bodyguards, there hadn’t been any attacks in years and weapons had to be checked at the door (he was bringing in a metal detector to be sure). Besides, the party was by invitation only and he trusted his staff to do a careful job on the list. So the event was going ahead, but Oscar wanted us on site in case things went south.
Effie met me just inside the club. I hadn’t seen her this excited since RuPaul premiered Canada’s Drag Race. She was standing with Oscar, the two of them propped against the wall. I said “Hi!” She said, “We sure are. Oscar has these great brownies he’s been passing around. Oh, and there’s a corpse on the stage.” Oscar grinned. Wonderful. I had just arrived, somebody was already dead on our watch, and my eyes on the ground were up with the kites and rising.
We headed across the lobby and into the main club area. It was a big room, windows along one side, a long bar along the other and a stage littered with tubas at the far end. Tables and chairs covered the floor, with evidence of heavy play in food and drink, but the place was empty except for a collection of guys in dark suits looking exactly like bodyguards who wished they were anywhere else. I recognized Tiny Timmins, McGurk’s head of security, on the stage and went over to him.
The corpse was indeed McGurk. He was flat on his back on the platform, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, a half-smoked cigar to one side of the body and an overturned champagne glass on the other. His bowtie was pinned to his throat by a small crossbow bolt. He died as he had lived — with a sneer on his face.
“Hell of a note, Tiny,” I said. “Not going to look good on our résumés.” I glanced back at Effie and Oscar, then asked, “You straight?” He replied, “Gay actually, but if you mean have I tried Oscar’s munchies, then the answer is no.” “Thank God for that. You can give me the lowdown on what happened here without giving me a headache.” Tiny reached into a coat pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. Old school.
“Tt all happened so fast. Me and the guys working the door had just discovered there were three uninvited guests, people who appeared on the laptop version of the list we were using to screen entries, but not on the paper version we had printed as backup this morning. Someone had pulled a last-minute hack. I was coming into the room to tell the boss. He was up here on the stage dancing in front of the band. Suddenly there was a funny sound, kind of a faint twang. He clutched his throat and dropped like a stone. Then the lights went out. When we got them working again, we found a small crossbow someone had thrown out the north window into the alley. Oscar keeps them open when there’s a full house like tonight. No one saw anyone fire the bolt or toss the bow. With the boss twirling around like that, it wasn’t even clear which direction the bolt had been fired from.”
I asked, “Isn’t a crossbow kind of a strange weapon for a hit like this?” “Actually no,” he replied. “This type is small enough to hide under a coat. It’s made entirely of fibreglass and carbon nanotubes, so it won’t set off our metal detectors. It’s quieter than a handgun. And there’s no gunpowder blowback onto your hand and sleeves.” Tiny Timmins was about four foot six. Across the shoulders. Height in proportion and built like a truck. It is not true that he’s the same size as the city of Timmins. The city is a bit smaller. Looks like a mook, giant economy size. But has a PhD and speaks four languages. Book : cover, right?
He went on. “There was no way we could hold onto the crowd once they worked out what had gone down. But we managed to detain two of the three uninvited guests. They didn’t want to stick around either, but a little looming and two brownies each persuaded them. They’re upstairs in Oscar’s apartment with one of the boys minding them. And they’re all victims of McGurk’s latest big swindle. So is Oscar, by the way, and so is one of the tuba players.”
[had read about the swindle. McGurk had been head of a syndicate that aggressively shorted the stock of a large Nova Scotia clothing manufacturer. He persuaded a lot of inexperienced investors to join him in this attack, but they wound up faced off against a bunch of well-organized small-scale punters, who bought up the firm’s stock and pushed the price sky-high. Things hung in the balance until one of the big financial papers published a puff piece on the company. An autocorrect error added an “S” at the end of the headline, which ended up as “You Can’t Sell Stanfields Shorts!”. This confused the company, whose sales were doing fine, but also panicked McGurk’s investors, who lost their shirts as they rushed to close out their positions. The company offered to replace their shirts but not their money. McGurk had of course ensured that he was not exposed to any financial risk, and had benefitted heavily from the percentage he took off the top. But a lot of lives were ruined.
Tiny joined Oscar, Effie and me in the private elevator to the top floor. With him in the car, it was so crowded we had to take turns breathing. We found everyone in Oscar’s comfortable living room. Among the suspects, we had a fat man, a tattooed woman, a bald man and a red-haired woman. I turned to Tiny. “I thought you said there were three uninvited guests, Tiny. With Oscar and the musician, that should make five.”
“Your math is fine, Shamus, but one of them left before we could round him up.” “Probably our killer then.” “That would make sense, except that the woman I have at the door, one of my best ops, is certain that guest left the club before the shot was fired, and didn’t come back. All the other doors are locked and alarmed.” Oscar piped up, “Right, I saw him go. I noticed because I thought I recognized him. I think he went to med school with my brother.”
We went over to where Effie was talking with the four other suspects. The tuba player was sweating profusely and couldn’t stop talking about how much McGurk had needed to die. He babbled about the good old days, when he was famous for his invention of the liquorice euphonium and headlined with his own band, the Tuba Four (named from the way they lumbered onto stage). Psychedelics are not always our friends.
The tattooed lady was texting frantically, until one of Tiny’s men took the phone away from her and dropped it in a potted cactus. She started talking to her tattoos instead. They looked sulky. Eventually she started arguing with them. I didn’t wait around to see if she lost the argument, which is always a bad result.
The lawyer was complaining loudly that she had to get home to prepare for a hearing the next day. She was representing the subway workers’ union in a case before the labour relations board. The workers were claiming that the medical insurance clause in their contract covered orthodontics. City Hall said buckteeth were the new black. The case seemed likely to go to dispute resolution. “Ow wow,” said Effie. “Transit dental mediation! The Maharishi would be so proud.” I gave her The Glare, but it just bounced off.
I banged on a coffee table and got everyone’s attention. Well, as much attention as was neuro-chemically available. Hercule Poirot never had these problems. “Look people, the cops will be here in a few minutes and then things get serious.
prime suspects. If you want to avoid a night in the lock-up, we’d do well to have a killer to hand them.” With a certain amount of difficulty, I got the following random information:
The three who received the phony invitations were Renarde, the tattooed woman (who was legally blind) and the salesman. Tiny and I agreed that the killer had probably invited McGurk’s other victims as cover.
The red-haired woman, whose seat was at position N on Tiny’s sketch-map, had serious Parkinson’s; she and the broadcaster were sisters.
Schwermotif, the musician, was playing on stage when the crossbow was fired.
Moran was the only suspect wearing glasses; he was seated at position W but was the one who left before the shot.
Of the suspects in the room when the lights went out, only the bald man had no line of fire to the victim.
When the bolt was fired, Oscar was at position S at the south end of the room. “I got as far away from that music as I could.” Effie backed him up but was not a reliable witness in her condition. Oscar was the brother of Zywycki, whose seat was at position E.
The lawyer was in the front row, not far from the fat man.
I could hear the police sirens, getting close. I sketched out a matrix and was able to put things together. But the results led nowhere. Then I looked at the names again and there was only one answer. “OK, Tiny, I have it. Our killer used a false name and claimed a false occupation, but was arrogant enough to assume no one else followed Sherlock Holmes.” Tiny raised an eyebrow. I responded, “What? You never read The Adventure of the Empty House? Barbarian. That’s what the Net is for.”
At that point, Detective Lieutenant Lou Tennant burst out of the elevator and confronted me. “Should have known I’d find you here, peeper. Lousing up another crime scene.” Lou and I have a love-hate relationship. He loves to hate me. I said, “Actually, Lou, the crime scene is downstairs and Tiny’s men were guarding it until you arrived. And we’ve rounded up the main suspects — well, most of them. Oh, and I can tell you who the killer is.” Lou hustled me into Oscar’s kitchen and said, “Spill.” I gave him the rundown. He scoffed as usual but took careful notes. I knew he would do a good job of wrapping things up. And take all the credit, but that’s my part of our deal. I take my cut in favours to be named later. As he turned to go back to the suspects, I offered him one of the brownies from the pan on the stove.
A couple of hours later, I left Oscar’s, went down Dystopia to the corner of Mean and hung a left. As I trudged home along the riverbank, it began to snow. And me in a light jacket. It had been that kind of year, and I was glad it was nearly over. Maybe 2020 would be better.
Can you duplicate Shamus’ feat and provide the name the killer was using? bout de papier will award a book prize signed by A Aalto to the submitter of the first correct answer drawn from a hat on September 30. Not necessary for winning, but can you explain how the killer accomplished the deed and the nature of the “arrogance” Shamus mentioned?
Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 31, No. 3 (2021), pp. 44–47. Read the rest of this issue →
