Sid Linner and the Sad Man

[MalReynolds]

Part 1:

The vista was pleasant enough. I say “pleasant enough” because there was one very noticeable blemish on the horizon – thick black smoke pouring into the perfectly affable summer sky. The sun tried its hardest to shine through the smog, but the smog would have none of it, and the sun eventually gave up, gradually shifting positions until it had retreated behind a hill.

When the night sky came, the flames from the six story apartment building leapt into the air with reckless abandon. They reminded a few passerbies of young vixens at a concert hall, and remarkably reminded other passerby of old women at a retirement complex. The blaze was both controlled and free, condemning and at the same time freeing.

The vista, ignoring the fire for the present, had many other nice features. There was a book store, a frame shop, a meat market, green grocers, and several homes. In the center of the town was a square surrounded by buildings, and in the middle was a fountain. The fountain was unfunctioning, as there had been a terrible drought that swept the area in the preceding months, making the fire all the more treacherous.

A small crowd gathered to watch the building crumble, and began to whisper in worries to each other whether or not their homes would be affected.

“I certainly hope not, I did pay a right lot of money for my house. I shouldn’t be punished because this slap-shod building caught alight.”

“What? What did this building do to deserve this?”

The first man paused. “Well, it did something, otherwise it wouldn’t have happened. Things like this just don’t happen for no bleedin’ reason.”

The second man shrugged, accepting the answer with some trepidation, as if he was given a pill designed for a horse in suppository form. “I suppose your right. Smiting and all that.”

“Smiting.”

When something catches on fire, all of the energy that was put into whatever is being consumed in flames is released. Technically speaking, if you burn a desk, you’re releasing all the energy in a desk. If you burn a puppy, you’re releasing all the energy in the puppy – although the frantic way they run, they’re looking to expend as much as possible before they expire.

The blaze, while being quite blasé, did have one remarkable feature. Almost everyone escaped unharmed from the flames, including a caged bird that belonged to a squat tired man named Reginald Druthers. He was carrying the bird under his arm as he fled through the front door of the building hours earlier.

I say most people escaped unharmed, which is true. Every tenant escaped the building, save for one. Frenchie Rawles, a quite disagreeable man with a short wick and quick temper, was presently expending all the energy his body could offer. He would have been running around had he not, at the time, been dead.

Druthers dusted off his slacks as he stared at the fire, haunted by what he had seen inside. He turned to the man on his right, a man who normally occupied the town square during the daylight hours as a cheerful organ grinder, monkey and all, and said quietly, “That fire is quite the problem, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes. I don’t think it’s a solution in any case.”

“No,” Druthers said, frowning. The worry lines creased his face like leather that had folded too many times. Druthers was a man prone to frowning instead of smiling, as it took less energy to let his face droop than to try and support it with his ever waning facial musculature. In his youth, his facial musculature was admirable, and he would smile all the time before deciding that it was too much effort and there was too little to be cheerful about. At the present, there was very little to be cheerful about.

“There’s a man burning in my apartment,” he said finally.

“Oh,” the organ grinder replied. And that was all he could say. In situations such as these, it is impossible to say anything else, as “Oh” quite succinctly covers the thousands of words flying through your head, most of which contain the letters “O” and “H” anyway. “That’s a bit of a bother then, isn’t it?”

Druthers frowned – and as he was already frowning, this turned into a freakish double-frown. “Yes. Yes it is. I don’t quite know what to do about it, either.”

The organ grinder shrugged. “Well, good luck with all that, then.”

“Thank you,” Druthers said, retreating one of the frowns. He now frowned singularly. It was as close as he would come to a smile for the time being.

The next day, when the blaze died down, the body of Mr. Rawles was found in the flat of Reginald Druthers, and without a proper alibi, he was detained for questioning. As it was a small hamlet, he was detained indefinitely for a spell. When the police realized what they were doing was quite unreasonable, as Mr. Druthers had quite a fear of both automobiles, airplanes, horses, and pathways that curled into the hills, and he was not in the least a flight risk, they released him.

The first thing he did was contact a peculiar man whom he had been reading about days prior in a news magazine that had been unceremoniously distributed. There was a somewhat unfavorable article about a young man, who had somehow in his spare time managed to capture a wanted felon using a piece of string, a piece of tape, and a small British girl named Pip.

“Uh, yes, hullo. My name is Reginald Druthers and I’m in a spot of trouble. I was wondering if you could come out to Butterville. Yes, yes, the name does sound quite made up, doesn’t it? What’s that? No, I don’t plan on killing you when you get here. No, I don’t plan on kissing you, either. I seem to have – Well, I’m in a bit of trouble. I’m willing to pay quite a large amount if you could possibly exonerate –“

But the line had died after the word “amount” had been spoken.

Three days later, Sid Linner appeared on one of the curving roads leading from the hills into town. In one hand, he held a suitcase filled with pants, shirts, and sand.

“Would you slow down, Sid? You’re walking too fast for me.”

As soon as Pip caught up, he smacked her upside the head. “Let me take this in before you begin your incessant chatter. That right there,” he motioned with his hand, “that is the building that burned down.”

“Oh, you don’t say, do you? And your detective skills let you figure this right out? I thought the grocers might have burned down, instead of that charred skeleton of a building.”

Sid turned, and stared down at her. “You’re horrible. You’re really rotten and I don’t know why I keep you around.”

“Because you promised my parents, that’s why.”

“Oh, hush up. I know why I keep you around. Come on, then. We have to meet Mr. Druthers.”

Pip looked up at him. “You think he’s innocent?”

Sid shrugged. “Innocent or not, the man has money – at least, according to the records I could dig up. He’s the town planner.”

“Well, la-de-dah,” Pip spat. “Nothing remarkable about this place.”

“Except that it looks like it was stolen from Queen Elizabeth’s cleavage. This place looks older than… Something that’s very old.”

“Brilliant.”

“All I’m saying is that the man has a vision. And men with visions, especially visions that are realized, are also men with money. Which I happen to like. Now please, mark down the distance from the town to the hill so we can get started on billing him.”

[MalReynolds]

Druthers sat in his old friend’s house, sipping a cup of weak tea and staring at the door as if it might do a trick – a trick unbecoming of a door, such a vaulting over the table and opening a can of Vienna sausages, to give you an idea of just how hard he was staring, waiting for Sid.

He failed, in his phone call to provide Sid with a forwarding address, and as such, Sid took his time standing in the skeletal frame of the apartment building, carelessly stepping over fallen pillars and dragging his feet through the piles of rubble. When he reached the far end, he began to climb the charred stairs, which were attached to nothing in particular, until he reached the point where a landing should be. He called down to Pip, “There should be a landing here,” before stepping across the empty landing-should-be space to a wobbly floorboard.

He continued further, open air on either side of him, moving along the elevated pillar with his arms out like a broke clock permanently stuck at 9:15, which reminded Pip that, when Sid was finished prancing acrobatically about the remains of the apartments, that she should very much like to take some tea before the full investigation went under way.

It was Pip’s experience working with Sid that more than two thirds of the time she would some how end up locked in a trunk at the foot of a bed, cut off from the civilized world, and more importantly, a strong cup of Earl Grey. The loss of human contact was only mildly distressing, as Pip really did love her tea.

Sid reached where he assumed a wall should be, turning to Pip and yelling, “There should be a wall here,” before stepping off the beam and onto a piece of flooring that seemed to almost be floating, but was instead attached to a very small piece of wall and a very frail wooden support. Sid turned, and found the remains of another stair case moving upwards. Sadly, this was the last set, but Sid climbed anyway until he reached the top.

“Make a note, there’s only three partial floors of what was once a six floor building, and that a lot of these fiddly bits back here seem to be floating in a slightly unreal manner.”

Pip did note this, and Sid began his descent.

From the window, Druthers saw the angular man walking around the fiddly bits that seemed to be floating, and watched him most curiously. There was a small toe-headed child with a large notebook standing in the middle of the square, watching the angular man move around in the mid air, almost floating, taking notes and scratching their head like they were longing for a good cup of tea.

Druthers watched the angular man walk out of the ruins, to the street, and slap the child upside the head. The child only seemed slightly annoyed by this rather than flat out angry, and opened a suitcase, sliding the notebook inside. They made their way to the broken fountain in the center of town, and the angular man stared at it, his head turned slightly to the side as if trying to figure it all out – not just the fountain, but everything.

Druthers opened the door and walked out to the fountain, turning his head to the side, trying to see just what the angular man was seeing. The child looked up at him, and looked at the angular man, back and forth, before speaking.

“You’re both loons, you know that. Completely. Totally.”

“Irrationally, lovingly, truly, madly, deeply,” the angular man said, without skipping a beat. “So, Mister Druthers, you seem to have been accused of murder. How is that working for you?”

Mister Druthers blinked twice. “Excuse me?”

“Well, you called me for a reason.”

“You’re Sid? I expected someone a little more… Robust.”

The angular man turned, tipping his hat and dropping it onto the small child’s head, extending his hand. Reginald took it and shook it twice – any more was more than formal, any less was exceedingly rude.

“Typically men accused of murder are kept in the jail,” Sid said, his sanguine face beaming.

“They don’t think I’m a flight risk.”

“And why is this? Do they, perhaps, think you’re innocent?”

“I’m not a flight risk.”

“Are you innocent?”

“Of course – “

“Because many guilty people have called me before, and I’ve refused them my services out of integrity, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh, come off it, Sid, they were just broke.”

“Quiet, Pip. I’m a man of noble integrity and I work with only people that are innocent beyond a reasonable doubt. Do you have any evidence that indicates your innocence?”

“I’m afraid not, I was under the impression that was your area of expertise.” Reginald rubbed his bald head with one hand and nervously twisted his cul-de-sac hair with the other.

“Well, this simply won’t do. I’m going to have to do everything, then?”

“You’re the detective, Mr. Linner.”

“I suppose I am. However, the question still remains of your innocence. If you can prove it to me, then I will work for you. Explain to me what happened, but be brief, if you will. I’m afraid I have a horrible attention span and find you quite droll.”

“Right, well, I came back to my flat to collect some papers – city planning and all that, and who should be on my bed but that Rawles fellow, and I called to him, I said, ‘Frenchie, what are you doing in here?’ But that’s when I noticed he was bleeding all over the place and it looked like someone went after his head with a right mallet, and so I became very confused, thinking that perhaps I had walked into the wrong flat, because it’s one thing entirely to have a man you don’t expect in your place, but another to have a man you don’t expect in your place to also be dead. So I checked the door, and yes, it was my flat, and so I gathered some rags up to put on top of the body while I went to the police, and that’s when I noticed the smoke coming from the rug, and the fire jumped to the rags, and I grabbed my bird and ran out of there as fast as I could. Very traumatic.”

Sid looked down at Pip. “Did you write that down?”

Pip nodded.

“Excellent. From your languishing retelling of last nights events, I can conclude that you did not, in fact, murder that man.”

“How so?”

“And there we have it. You said you checked the door and covered the body, and then the fire started. As it happens, the fire brigade filed a report stating that the fire started from your kitchen, and if you were trying to dispose of the body, you would have actually set the fire on the body rather than in the kitchen. Your story congeals like a congealy mass. I’ll work on your case. So, Mr. Druthers, who would want to frame you for murder?”

“Hell if I know, Mr. Linner. But I’m sure you can ask some of the people about town. I always thought I was an agreeable person.”

“The worst kind, I’m sure you know. Disagreeable people are important because there always has to be finite opposition, overly agreeable just make you want to hit them. They both evoke emotions rather than a feeling of safety. Perhaps someone was trying to offset your safety. Perhaps… It was your bird.”

Both Pip and Druthers squawked “What?”

“In my experience as a private investigator, I find that it is, in most cases, the people closest to you that try to hurt you. Since you live alone, have no romantic life to speak of, your parents are both dead and you have no children, I’m left to assume your bird was trying to shake you from your boredom. It probably killed Frenchie Rawles, moved the body, and then returned to its cage, which, at this point, it probably does know how to open. Case closed.”

“Not quite,” Pip said.

“And why not?”

“Good lord, Sid, do you really think a Parakeet can move a body?”

“The very fact that you rule that out tells me you know nothing about animals.”

“The very fact that you rule that in tells me that you know nothing about physics! Do you see what I have to work with, Druthers?”

“Perhaps I’ve made a mistake,” he said earnestly to Sid. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

He began to walk away, and Sid picked up his bag. “Wait a second, wait a second. That was… Merely a test. If you truly believed your bird committed the murder, then I wouldn’t be able to work for you because you would latch on to any conclusion you could as long as it exonerates you. You’re an honest man. We can do business.”

Druthers was growing quite tired. “Come, back to my friend’s house. Arthur McClaren.”

“We’ll be right with you,” Sid called back. “I want to look at this fountain a second longer. Why doesn’t it work?”

“Drought,” Druthers said over his shoulder.

“Hm,” Sid said ponderously over his breath, scratching his chin as if it were a delicate kitten.

After Druthers walked back into McClaren’s house, Pip looked up at Sid.

“Do you really think he’s innocent?”

Sid shrugged. “It could go either way, really. I do, however, think if he did not kill the man, the bird certainly did. But come on, you have a look on your face like you’re longing for tea. I bet they have some at Arthur’s house.”

Pip and Sid turned, facing the sun, and stepped into the old wooden house.

[MalReynolds]

Much to Pip’s dismay, the tea kept in the house of McClaren was a weak Langford, causing Pip to exhaust some of her own personal stash of Grey.

“Otherwise, I can’t think straight,” she said, moving about the kitchen.

“While she’s setting up a mess in the other room, I’ll run distraction. Mr. McClaren?”

Mr. McClaren was as Irish looking as his name would allow. He was around six and a half feet tall with a tuft of red, curly hair that looked like it was plopped onto his otherwise pale skull by a canister of whipped cream. His eyes were a bright green, in stark contrast to the sheer normalcy of Druthers’s pupils, which were a sad gray.

“Yes?”

“How do you know my client?”

“Mr. Druthers?”

“Unless you some how know my other clients, then yes, Mr. Druthers would be the one I’m referencing.”

“He’s the town planner. I had to go to him to get the zoning to have an extension put onto the back of my house. He’s a good natured fellow. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I’m not terribly keen on that expression. Yes, it means he wouldn’t harm a nuisance of a person – that’s always how I’ve interpreted it, but to compare a fly to a human would have to make the human being compared to the insect a despicable mess. One that flitters about with wings and makes a disagreeable noise. Of course, if he couldn’t be bothered to hurt an insect – another way to look at the expression, it would, in the event of his guilt, make him look even more sub human to value a life under that of an annoying flittering thing with wings.”

McClaren stood at him, his right eye open slightly more than the left. “You talk so much, Mr. Linner.”

“Please, Mr. Franklin Abigail Tendersmith Lumley was my father. Call me Sid.”

“Right, then.”

“Next question, Mr. McClaren. Did you kill Frenchie Rawles?”

“No.”

“The answer a guilty man would no doubt give.”

“Or an innocent one,” Pip said, popping her head from the kitchen. “Just keep that in mind, Sid.”

“Right. An innocent man wouldn’t exactly admit to murder, unless he was mental. You’re not mental, are you?”

“No.”

“The answer a sane man would give.”

Druthers sat and watched the exchange, which carried on in a similar manner for the next ten minutes, growing more and more frustrated with the lack of actual progress. Finally, after Sid told McClaren that his answer was, “The answer a man who is not secretly a penguin would give,” he stood.

“I think you’ve exhausted the line of questioning with McClaren, Sid. Perhaps it’s time to move on. It clearly wasn’t McClaren. I think after such excessive questioning, any man would admit guilt just to get away from you.”

“One of my many tactics,” Sid said. “But yes, you’re absolutely right. I’ll go for a walk about town. The grocers seemed like they were rife for questioning.

“One final thing, McClaren – do you think it’s possible for a parakeet to wield a hammer?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Very well. Druthers, you keep good company. We can do business.”

But before Druthers could protest that they were, in fact, already doing business, Sid had slipped out the door and into the daylight sun.

-

Sid, however, did not go to the grocers. He found the doors had been shut tight, and instead found himself wandering down a side street, in the direction of the fire house. As he passed an alleyway, he, by pure chance, turned and saw the organ grinder standing in the square, playing a sharply funny tune while his monkey danced around. A few townspeople watched and dropped coins, and Sid could not help but smile. The monkey was a cute cuss, and the grinder a squat, fat Italian man with a handlebar moustache. They played directly across the plaza from the ruined apartments.

Sid’s attention was so divided that he walked straight into Clark B. Auger, who, even if Sid had been paying attention to his current foot path, would have been stepped on, as he was unusually short, even for a short man.

“Excuse me,” Sid said. “I didn’t see you down there.”

“Excuse me?” Auger said. “Down there? Down where?”

“Near the ground, as you are quite short. I’m not looking for pennies, and as such, I didn’t see you. So I apologize.”

“Who are you?”

“Another apology. I’ve failed to introduce myself. My name is Sidney Linner, known around these parts as Sid Linner. I’m a private investigator, looking into the accidental death of Frenchie Rawles.”

“Bloke was murdered,” Auger said. “And I’ve heard of you. Caught a fella’ with a piece of string and tape, did you?”

Sid nodded. “And a small British girl. Everyone forgets that one. She’s a disagreeable cuss, though. Should have let the man keep her.”

“Awful notion.”

“Is it common knowledge that Rawles was murdered?” Sid asked.

“It’s a small town,” Auger said, turning to the town square. “Everyone lives on the square. Everyone saw the fire, everyone saw the body get wheeled out. Word travels fast. And Rawles wasn’t exactly the nicest fella’, so… Some people started counting their blessings. When they thought it was just a fire that done him in, they said it was an act of God.”

“And what when they found it was murder?”

“They said it was an act of mercy. Rawles kept pushing law suits on everyone. We don’t even have a barrister here, so the lot of good it would do, but he kept pushing them around like they was going out of season, or like they was some kind of bug about to go extinct or like they was some kind of rare gem or like they was some kind of cloud that you only see once. Threatened me with one, and I head up the police force.”

“Ah, so, you’re Clark Auger.”

“How’d you know?”

“I don’t go into these things blind. I did my research before I came. The file also said you head up the fire brigade.”

“That’s for true.”

“Can you tell me what exactly started the fire? I know it started in the kitchen, but the file didn’t get any more explicit.”

“Looked like a wonton cigarette did the trick. Which is odd, on account of Mr. Druthers don’t even smoke from what I know.”

“Odd indeed. Can you tell me, do you know who does smoke?”

“Well, I do. McClaren does. Marble Finley, the grocer, she does. Tim Shopper, Frenchie Rawles, we all carry smokes. Mr. Linner, everyone in this town smokes except Mr. Druthers. Which is all the more ironic his flat should be the one to catch fire first. Especially from a cigarette.”

“And you couldn’t match it to the smoker?”

Auger shook his head. “We only get one type of cigarette here. Parliament. They’re bloody awful, believe me, but it’s what we can get. The only kind. Parliament in the flat, but that’s what we all smoke. The only thing we know is that Druthers didn’t start the first, at least, on purpose, but that don’t mean he didn’t take a hammer to Rawles.”

“You’re being most helpful. Was anyone else in the apartment?”

“No. Two sets of foot prints. Rawles’s and Druthers’s. That’s what we got before the floor completely gave way. Pretty incriminating, don’t you think?”

Sid sighed. “I’m afraid it is, isn’t it. Does not bode well for my client. However, I’m bound and determined that he is an innocent man and will do everything in my power to prove him as such.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The guilty people typically don’t ever get around to paying me, as they’re too busy running from the law to send a courtesy check or money order.”

“Oh,” Auger said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Cigarette?”

“No thank you,” Sid declined. “I don’t smoke. Nasty habit. Starts fires, didn’t you hear?”

Auger smiled. Sid noted his missing teeth.

“One last question, Mr. Auger. Parakeets – do they have the musculature to wield hammers?”

“Ah… No. Not in the least.”

Sid nodded, and took off down the road

[MalReynolds]

Pip sat down with Mr. Druthers and Mr. McClaren. She put her teacup down on a small plate designed for small items such as tea cups, and returned to the kitchen to grab a spoon. She rifled through the fridge, and found no cold cream, no milk – not a single trace of delicious tea additive, except a lemon that had, at one point, been yellow. It was now the kind of brownish color that you find inside the lungs of a man who has smoked several rocket-sized cigars a day for a decade.

Her exploits no longer warranting a spoon, she returned to the sitting room. Mr. Druthers, at the present, had his head in his hands, and Mr. McClaren was flipping through a news periodical. When he reached the end, finally, he stared at Pip, who was already looking in his direction at the room. The room was as decorated as a salty war veteran with diplomas and certificates, but the wall paper was peeling, as if the war veteran smoked a high volume of rocket-sized cigars.

“So, why do you travel with him?”

Pip took a sip of tea, and looked at McClaren. “Why do you think you’re privy to information like that?”

“It’s just odd,” he said, putting his feet on the table – a nasty habit, if there was one – “to find such a small girl traveling with a grown man.”

Pip sighed and put the cup down. “I was kidnapped. Sid found me.”

“So why do you go with him?”

“My parents paid the bleedin’ nitwits to kidnap me. Sid promised them that he’d take better care of me than they ever could.”

McClaren blinked twice, before removing his feet from the table. “Are you serious? I can’t tell.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m his daughter. Surprises me that didn’t cross your mind, bright fella’ like you.”

-

Sid wandered into the town square, amidst the crowd who had gathered around the organ grinder. Sid cut a swath through the throng, and stood, watching in amusement as a tiny spider monkey tossed a ball back and forth. It was wearing a darling red vest stolen straight from the Beatles and a tiny baseball cap. The organ grinder’s accordion seemed almost organic, as if growing out of his body. He effortlessly played a tune, and the monkey changed rhythm before tossing the ball to a small child into the crowd.

When the child caught the ball, the crowd erupted into applause. The organ grinder took a bow, giving a theatrical twirling of his moustache, and the monkey scaled the mountain of a man and took perch on his shoulder.

Most of the people, in turn, dropped money in the accordion case for the grinder.

“That Mario sure is something, isn’t he?” a passing whisper said, dropping a few small bills.

Sid took note of the name – stereotypical Italian – and stepped back. There was a solitary woman at the rear of the pack, who Sid had noted to have been there for the entire performance, from when he first spied Mario through the alley to that very moment, but she did not reach into her purse, and she did not approach the man.

Sid turned to Mario. “Fantastic show, I must admit, very fantastic. I’ve never hated accordion music less than when you play it. I would drop money, but I’m not going to, as it’s very windy and the wind is liable to take the money and run off with it. And you know the wind. Chronic boozer. Wouldn’t want to feed a bad habit.”

Mario smiled congenially.

“But perhaps you could give me some of your money, as I have a quick wit and,” Sid motioned to the tree line, “And I could really use a few.”

Mario smiled congenially.

Sid turned to the woman, who was strikingly beautiful, even half the square away. He walked away from the grinder, to the non-functioning fountain, and took a seat. After a few seconds of staring longingly at her, she approached.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I don’t know your name. The only way to get you over here is if you thought I needed something, or if I was something you wanted. In either case, what’s your name?”

“Raleigh,” she said. Her face was round, but not moon-like. Her eyes were small, inset in her head like two firm gems in a statue. She had worry lines across her brown, parallel like a road with many lanes, all of which had been traversed with fire trucks full to the brim with tobacco and unfriendly thoughts. She wore a bandana which pulled her hair close to her scalp and made her look vaguely Russian, except for her tan skin.

“Raleigh, Mario doesn’t speak English.”

“At least not well. He knows a few phrases he picked up here.”

“Raleigh, why didn’t you leave him money? He’s an impressive man. You’ve been watching the entire show.”

“I would. I love the old man to death, but I don’t have any money.”

Sid watched as Mario pocketed the money, save for one bill, which he gave to the monkey, who ran off. He packed the accordion away, and moved into one of the alleys, disappearing.

“Does he play out here often?”

Raleigh nodded. “Every four hours or so. Excellent show, too. That monkey is just cuddly. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Sidney Linner, but people call me Sidney Linner. So, Raleigh, why don’t you have any money? To live in idyllic town like Butterville, I would think you would have to make a pretty penny.”

“I was the sole maid for the apartment complex. You know, the one that burned to the ground.”

“That’s very sad. So you know the whole ordeal behind Rawles and Druthers?”

She nodded. “I had just cleaned the place hours before the building went up in smoke. Horrible mess. Absolutely dreadful.”

She reached into her hand bag and removed a cigarette, lighting up, and turning to Sid. “Care for one?”

He shook his head. “Nasty habit. Starts fires, didn’t you hear?”

She shrugged. “I feel for Druthers. Kind old man. Loves that bird of his to death. He made quite a few enemies, you know.”

“I didn’t. Please, continue.”

“He’s constantly having to deny house expansions, business expansions. It’s a dreadful business, being the town planner. Everyone smiles to his face, but the things they say behind his back… It’s dreadful. It really is, how cruel everyone can be.”

“And what did they say about him, exactly?”

“Oh, what they would do if they had the gall.”

“Setting him up for murder wouldn’t be unlikely, would it?”

Raleigh looked at him. “So you think he’s innocent.”

“That’s what I’m here to prove. I’m a detective, Miss.”

She dropped the cigarette onto the ground. “I can never finish these. I keep trying to quit. I have to go. Excuse me.”

“What’s the rush, Miss?”

“I can’t stand detectives.”

“Why not? We’re slippery, cod like in our evasive maneuvers? We ask unsettling questions that rattle your brain? We often times carry guns – although I assure you, I don’t keep such beastly items? Could it be my red face, or the various nicks on my neck where I’ve cut myself shaving?”

“I was engaged to a detective. He left me.”

“I’m very sorry,” Sid said, rising.

“It’s not your fault. He was mauled by bears. A big group of angry bears.”

Sid stared at her forehead as if she was growing a tentacle. “That’s unfortunate.”

Raleigh nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “He had just recovered a cub from a poacher, and was returning it to the cave. Life is funny like that, you know? One day you’re having tea with the man you love, the next, you find he’s been mauled by a group of angry bears that don’t know the difference between taking and returning – they thought he was taking the cub, which doesn’t make since, because how can you take something again that’s been missing? But then again, they’re bears. They’re quite stupid.”

“And strong,” Sid offered. “I’ll let you go. Obviously it pains you to talk about this as much as it pains me to listen. You’ve been an invaluable help to me and my investigation. I assure you that in detective heaven, your fiancé is sleuthing to the best of his ability and will no doubt unravel some of time’s greatest ephemeral mysteries in the foggy great beyond.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No. I’m an atheist.”

Before Raleigh could respond, Sid walked away.

-

Sid returned to the McClaren house and entered without knocking. Druthers hadn’t moved, his head still buried in his hands as if he was an old wrinkly ostrich. McClaren and Pip were staring at each other with an air of uneasiness settling over the room like a tarp that didn’t quite fit.

“Well,” Druthers said to his palms, “did you find anything out?”

“Only that you’re oblivious to the malice of man and that you had far more enemies than you thought.”

“What?” He pulled his head up.

“You’re agreeable, but you’re naïve. No one likes it when their housing plans get denies, and that was part of your job. You’re a very nice person from what I don’t care to note, but you’re extremely closed off from reality. It could have been anyone that tried to do you in. In fact, the only person with no motive would be your bird, which comes as a shock to me, as I was certain the bird did commit the murder.”

Druthers frowned. “What?”

“Nothing. Even Auger could have done it.”

“Nonsense. The apartment was locked – no… The door was unlocked, that’s right. And the window was open, which is odd, because I do take care to close and lock the window. A few years ago there was a string of break-ins and I knew my apartment was going to be next, so I invested in good locks. Always kept them shut.”

“It’s good that you’re telling me this now,” Sid said. “Otherwise, I might never figure out what’s going on. Anything else that very important that you neglected to mention that you’re remembering now?”

“Oh, come off it, Sid. You’re no closer to solving the case then you were ten minutes ago,” Pip said. “And this tea is awful. I’m sorry, Mr. McClaren, that your wife left you, but good lord, man.”

“How did you know that?” McClaren demanded.

“Inch thick dust on the shelves, poorly stocked fridge, half the room has new wall paper. My guess is you were taking too long getting the room back together, and it led to a fight, and she left. True?”

McClaren grunted. “Smart girl.”

“Clever girl,” she corrected. “I don’t do well in math and I don’t quote books. I figure things out. Clever, not smart.”

“Clever girl,” McClaren whispered. “Very astute,” he said to Sid.

“Don’t I know it? Why do you think I keep her around?”

“Because of the promise to my parents,” she said.

Sid turned, and walked into the kitchen. There were have cobbled shelves, and the window was cracked. He ran his finger towards the sink, which was absolutely caked in rust. He turned, and looked at the fridge. On top was a pristine, brand new hammer. Sid grabbed it and returned to the sitting room.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“A hammer,” McClaren and Druthers said at the same time.

“Trick question. I know it’s a hammer. Why, if your house is in such disrepair, do you have a brand new hammer, when you clearly don’t plan on repairing the house anytime soon?”

McClaren shrugged. “My hammer went missing a few weeks ago. I didn’t think much of it and just bought a new one. I don’t like losing things.”

“Pip? What do you think?”

“McClaren, my money is on your hammer being a murder weapon. Your old hammer. This one hasn’t been used for hitting nails or skulls.”

McClaren stared, dumbfounded. “What?”

“It only makes sense. Where would your other hammer be?”

Pip walked over to Mr. Druthers, and tapped his shoulder. “Quick question, sir. What did Rawles do for a living?”

“Night time garbage man, why?”

“Thank you much,” she said, turning to Sid. They gave each other a full nod, as if coming to a mutual understanding that the cornucopia of clues made no sense – but the type of no sense that was almost ready to be put together into a delicious flan of revelation.

[MalReynolds]

Sid and Pip watched the organ grinder from across the square. The monkey returned with a pack of cigarettes, which he handed to the man. Mario took the pack and slid it into his pocket, and removed a lighter from the monkey’s vest. A small piece of wire dropped to the ground, which the monkey quickly picked up and placed back in his pocket. Sid and Pip both noted this, and walked to the grocers.

Marble Finley was a squat old woman who most closely resembled an old Russian stacking doll. At any moment, she was expected to split down the middle and have a smaller, slightly more charming Marble Finley pop out.

She wore her white hair up in a bun, so it was impossible to tell the length, and she squinted through glasses at Sid, who was standing in front of her.

“Hello, Ms. Finley. I just have a few questions. Have you ever employed Raleigh? The cleaning woman?”

Marble Finley nodded, her glasses moving dangerously up and down her nose.

“And how did that work out?”

Before Marble could answer, a man piped up from behind Sid. “Good maid, very good maid, but nasty habit of leaving her cigarette butts in my ash trays. Tim Shopper, nice to meet you.”

Sid took his hand, and turned to Pip. “Write that all down. Mr. Shopper, that spider monkey, does he buy cigarettes here often?”

Tim nodded. “Oh yeah. Ms. Finley doesn’t really care for Mario. Says he don’t speak the language.”

“At least not well. He’s picked up on a few things, from what I hear. What does Ms. Finley think of Mr. Druthers?”

“Oh, she and I, we both hate him. He denied the store expansion for her and wouldn’t let me put a pool in. Nice man, but protective of Butterville. Lives alone, this place… This place is his baby.”

“And you can begrudge him of that?” Pip piped up.

“Well, it’s just flat out rude, you know. Mr. Auger thinks so. McClaren is one of the only people he’s let have an extension on his house, and you know, Mr. McClaren let his house go way south. Mr. Auger always held it against Druthers that he would let McClaren have an extension like that.”

Pip nodded, and turned to Sid. “What? Do you have it?”

Sid sighed. “I think I do.”

-

“Mr. Druthers… And Mr. McClaren, I suppose, since you’re present and it was, in fact, your hammer that did in Frenchie Rawles. I do believe I figured out who killed Frenchie.

“Mario, the organ grinder – no, no, he didn’t do it. But he was at odds with Mr. Rawles, correct? His perch for playing accordion was under the apartment, which was fine for most of the tenants, save Rawles, who had to work the night shift. His sleep was constantly interrupted by the raucous applause from the street below. Since Mario speaks only limited English, he was in several altercations with Rawles. They couldn’t understand each other, so they would often just flail their arms around.

“This takes me back to the string of break ins. You said, Mr. Druthers, that you were afraid your apartment would be next. But there’s no feasible way to get to your apartment from the street. To get to your window, one would have to be an acrobat of some kind.”

“Never hurt to take precautions,” Druthers said.

“Right,” Pip said, taking over. “In this case, it didn’t help, though. See, the robberies died down at about the time Mario figured out it was his monkey going and doing the stealing. Somehow managed to get the little fellow to stop. That is, until the monkey came across the right tool. He found a piece of filament wire, and began breaking into houses again. McClaren, he stole your hammer. Mr. Druthers, he broke into your apartment – it was next on his monkey-list anyway, as you said your apartment, following a pattern, would be next.”

“Who should he find inside,” Sid said, “Then Frenchie Rawles, looking for zoning permits to help him form a lawsuit against Mario. Frenchie broke into your apartment looking for a way to shut the poor Italian up. And the monkey, the poor monkey, only knew of Rawles what he saw in the interactions between Rawles and Mario. Sensing aggression the man, and rightly so, the monkey took the hammer to Rawles head.”

Druthers started blankly at Sid. “And how did the place catch fire?”

“You have a smoke filled room, which means something in that room - or at least, close to a ventilation system that leads into that room - is on fire. You assume fire, because you see smoke. Very rarely do you ever think about what it is that is actually on fire, and in this case, it would be a pile of rags put on top of a body. The rags are on top of the body so that the maid will not see it, the lot of good it would do, as she was partially blind, and Mr. Druthers, you would have known this if you had the slightest clue… However, you did know she was a smoker due to the cigarette butts she frequently left scattered around the freshly cleaned rooms. You’re not a smoker, Mr. Druthers, so you don’t have an ashtray. I do believe Raleigh, who can never finish a full cigarette, would frequently leave half smoked blunts on plates. The monkey, I noted, carries a lighter to help Mario light cigarettes. The monkey found a cigarette on the ground, lit it, had a puff, and tossed it when he heard you coming in.

“The monkey left through the window, inadvertently setting the apartment after getting at the back of Rawles head with the very nasty claw end of a hammer.”

“And you’re sure?”

Pip nodded. “It all adds up. The missing hammer, the murder in your apartment. Frenchie’s motive was there, the motive for the monkey – two sets of foot prints, belonging to you and Rawles. The monkey would have kept elevated, as was his practice as an ex-thief. It explains your window being open. Hiring a smoking maid explains the cigarettes in your apartment – she did clean your place hours before it went up in smoke, and there’s a smoldering cigarette near the fountain, where she dropped one earlier today. Of course, this would be awfully hard to prove.”

“Excepting that the monkey, returning to a life of crime, would have items that he has stolen. And since he does not want his owner to know, he would have a secret cache. Inside would be the hammer used to murder Rawles. It could very easily exonerate you, all things considered.

“Of course, this theory all hinges on you being innocent. Are you an innocent man, Mr. Druthers?”

“I am an innocent man.”

“Very good, then we can do business,” Sid said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to apprehend a monkey.”

-

Sid left the house and walked across the town square, towards Mario, who was setting up shop again, preparing another knock-em-dead show.

“Excuse me, Mario, may I have a word?”

Mario smiled congenially. “Oh,” he said.

“Right, yes, I have to take your monkey. As your monkey is a known murderer.”

Mario scrunched his face like an orange being juiced, as if he grasped the rudimentary parts of the sentence, but not fully.

“Murder?”

Before Sid could answer, the monkey sprung from it’s perch on the accordion case, hitting Sid across the jaw with a mean left hook.

“Monkey!” Sid shouted, putting his dukes up.

-

Pip watched Sid box the monkey for a few seconds, before the hand clamped down over her mouth. Before she could scream, she was moving head over heels into the footlocker, which sat squarely at the base of a bed.

After a few seconds, her eyes shot open with the sudden realization. She all of a sudden understood just what was going on, and would have slapped her forehead, had she the room to move.

“How could I have been so obtuse!” she muttered, under her breath. And all at once, she longed for a strong cup of Earl Grey.

-

Sid threw a right hook, but the monkey was far too fast. It dodged, and climbed up Sid’s arm, taking perch, slinging its legs around his neck and playing his head like a bongo.

“Gah! Blasted dance-worthy rhythm your monkey is banging out!” Sid cried.

Sid juked to the left, throwing the monkey off balance. It clattered to the ground, and Sid retreated to McClaren’s house, removing the bags of sand from his suitcase, and walking back to the town square. A small crowd had gathered, and Sid made a semicircle around himself. The monkey charged at him, fury in the crazy, beady monkey eyes, but as soon as it’s feet hit the sand, it fell fast asleep.

“Monkey?” Mario asked. “Dead?”

“No,” Sid said, brushing his arm off. There was a small trickle of blood running from a laceration on his forehead. “That spider monkey was of the breed Playastus. They’re found on beaches. The touch of sand reminded him of home and the docile life it used to lead before it became a chain smoking murderer. Now, can someone show me where Mario lives?”

-

Sid was lead across town, to a very small house. It appeared that Mario had been the only person in town to not request an extension on his property, and this would be confirmed as the copies of the paperwork from Druthers’s files finally came to light several weeks later.

Sid followed the scent of that blasted monkey to the hammock it slept in, and found a loose floorboard underneath. Inside were a few trinkets. Documents from Druthers’s apartment, a few items from the grocers, but suspiciously missing was the murder weapon. Indeed, there was a hammer shaped hole in the goods where it should have gone, but it had been removed what looked like days prior.

Moving hastily, Sid turned, and moved to the unconscious monkey, reaching into it’s pocket and removing the filament wire.

“Of course! I’m so obtuse! Mr. Shopper!”

There was a fair crowd following Sid around.

“Yes?” a voice called from the back.

“What is Mr. McClaren’s job?”

“Engineer. Mainly works on the fountain.”

Sid shook his head. “Of course… Intrigued mob?”

There was a uniform grunt of acknowledgement.

“Please proceed to Mr. McClaren’s residence. You’ll notice that it is the only house with an extension, and that it is the only house in utter disrepair. You’ll find my assistant in his footlocker. If you could use your menacing mob mentality, it would be wonderful if you could corner him.”

And so they did, moving across town as a single unit.

Sid opened McClaren’s foot locker and slapped Pip upside the head.

“You figured it out?” Pip asked.

“Yes. Finally. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What?” the crowd cried.

“Right, excuse me, we should address the question at hand. McClaren murdered his wife!”

McClaren, who was cornered in the back of the room, cried out. “That’s a lie! A falsehood!”

“Where is she, then?”

“Staying with her sister in Surry, that’s where. You can’t say I killed her if you don’t have a body!”

Sid turned to the trunk, offering a hand to Pip. She climbed to her feet, and stepped out of the box, holding a bloodied hammer in her hand.

“Word to the wise, McClaren. If you have a murder weapon, don’t leave it where you’re going to stash a hostage. They’ll probably find it.”

“That doesn’t prove anything!” he cried out.

“I’ll entertain this,” Sid said. “Briefly. I’ll excuse you being in possession of a murder weapon. I won’t even ask why you have it. I’ll just assume you missed your old hammer that had been stolen and that’s just Frenchie’s blood on it, not your wife’s. But I do have a fountain to repair,” Sid removed the piece of filament wire from his pocket. “If you don’t mind.”

Sid marched the crowd to the fountain, and in the waning sunlight, opened the electric box at the base, pushing aside a few covered copper wires, before finding an abscess where a small piece of filament used to go. He slowly moved it in place.

There was a churning noise as the gears began to turn, the vacuum began to move water through the tubing.

And the water that emerged from the top of the fountain was yellow and smelled of utmost death.

Sid removed the wire, and moved to the fountain bed, sloshing through the vile liquid, moving to the reservoir maintenance panel, which he opened.

“Pip, a light.”

She handed over a small flashlight, which Sid shined into the hole.

“Well, yes, I would say that is one dead woman in there. And with a piece of heavy stone sealing the entrance to the reservoir, it makes a very nice coffin. Only, people would notice if the fountain began spewing foul water, so you had to shut if off. But you left the filament wire on the street, in front of the apartment, where the monkey found it.

“You don’t like losing things, McClaren. And she was leaving. So you decided to keep her. As long as the drought kept up, you would never need to get the fountain running. And considering the climate of your area, I would say rain is unlikely.”

“So, really,” Pip said, “It was your own actions that brought about the death of Mr. Rawles, the destruction of a public building, the incarceration of an innocent man, the return to a life of crime of a monkey, the kidnapping of a child. Selfish, selfish, Mr. McClaren.”

McClaren said nothing. He looked utterly defeated, as if beaten by a large 2x4 of impossible logic.

Auger cuffed him and carried him away. There was polite scattered applause, as Sid and Pip stood on the fountain edge and took a bow.

“Nothing to see here,” he called out, “Except two amazing detectives. Please, please, return home and forward all donations to my address, which you can find in your yellow pages.”

The crowd eventually dispersed, a slow murmur running through about the incredulousness of the preceding events. Raleigh stayed and watched Sid, as Sid watched the crowd. She walked up to him after everyone had left.

“That was pretty good,” she said. “I just hope you don’t get mauled by a bear.”

Sid smiled. “I was attacked by a monkey. Not really the same, but animals are animals.”

Raleigh nodded. “If you’re ever in Butterville again, you’ll come see me?”

“I don’t know why on earth I would come back here,” Sid said. “Idyllic isn’t my setting.”

“What is?”

Sid shrugged. “I’ll tell you when I figure that out.”

Smiling, Raleigh walked away.

Finally, Druthers approached Sid.

“I don’t understand everything that just happened, but I appreciate you clearing my name.”

“And I appreciate all the money that will be coming in. Pip, have you been taking notes on the entire case?”

“Yessir.”

“We’ll tabulate your bill once we get back to our base of operations. Pip, go pack the bag.”

“The bag is already packed. We haven’t been here more than a day.”

“Good girl.”

There was a pause, and Sid and Mr. Druthers stared at each other.

“Your bird is innocent,” Sid finally broke the silence. “And you’re an honest man.”

“It was good doing business with you, Mr. Linner. We can do business.”

Sid and Pip turned to leave, walking down the winding grass road out of town. At the base of the foothill, Sid stopped Pip.

“ ‘It was a good doing business with you, Mr. Linner. We can do business.’

“Pip, make sure to note on the bill, ‘Stealing Mr. Linner’s line - $200.’ That ought to show him.”

THE END.

The adventure will continue in... Sid Linner and the Missing Mask!

[CalvinWitmore]

Outside of spelling/grammar issues, it was brilliant.

[MalReynolds]

Ah, thank you. I'm going to edit it up later, as I realize now I gave McClaren no reason for getting the hammer back. Of course, the motive would be that it links him to the death of his wife.

[The_Q]

I scrolled down.

It looked long.

And I'm in the library reading a textbook that I spent a whole 6 dollars on.

Q

[whiteflame]

I liked the ending, it was all interesting. You also managed to keep a fair balance of crazy.

[andy-o24]

Another wonderul story from you, Mal. To be honest, I'm not a huge fan of murder mysteries or mysteries in general, but this one caught my attention and kept me reading.

I'll continue being honest in saying that after he asked the store clerk her respective questions I figured out who killed Frenchie. The turn, though, on McClarren's wife being murdered by him was rather strange, but tied up loose ends and fit the story well.

10/10 All the way, Mal. I look forward to the next story.

[MalReynolds]

Thank you both.

I have another Sid story coming soon - it is the missing mask one, but it's going to be considerably shorter.

[Litodude]

Damn, what a great read. Posting for you Mal~