The Case of the Poison Quill Letter

Taking the corner of Marylebone Road and Baker Street at speed, the hansom cab bounced on the cobblestones, throwing me sideways against the door. Moments later, the cab halted outside 221B. Tossing coins towards the driver, I shouted my thanks.

Inside the building, I took the stairs two at a time, passing a startled Mrs Hudson on the landing. A pile of dirty cups and plates rattled on tray she was carrying.

Throwing open Sherlock Holmes’ door, I dropped my medical bag and rushed towards the body slumped in a high-backed chair near the fireplace. His skin was cold to the touch but there was a faint pulse in his bony wrist.

“What on Earth are you playing at, Watson?”

Startled, I jumped back. Holmes stretched, yawned and stared down at my bag. “Excellent. We’ll need that.”

“But, but,” I spluttered. “Thirty minutes ago one of the Baker Street Irregulars came hammering on my surgery door claiming you’d been poisoned. The boy was obviously terrified.”

“Or a wonderful actor. I’d given the urchin a halfpenny and told him if you were here within the hour, I’d give him another.”

“You do realise I’m busy with my practice?”

“Precisely, Watson. Why else would I bother with the theatrics? I need your help with a rather interesting case.” He gestured towards the bag. “But first I would like you to inject me with cocaine – a seven percent solution.”

I refused. If a patient required it, I was willing to give them cocaine to dull pain or improve mental function but Holmes had neither need.

“Perhaps later,” said Holmes. Languidly, he reached across to a side table and used his thumb and forefinger to lift up what appeared to be a piece of thickish paper with a red wax seal in the bottom corner and, across the front, a single paragraph written with neat penmanship. “The lad would’ve been more accurate if he’d said ‘almost poisoned’. Before that jezail bullet at the Battle of Maiwand cut short your army career, you’d made quite a study of Afghan and Indian poisons. So, please smell this.”

I leant towards the dangled item, noticing for the first time it was more like parchment, some sort of pale animal skin. A disagreeable aroma arose from the ink. “Strychnos nux-vomica from the strychnine tree.”

“What a gift you have, Watson. In seconds, you’ve confirmed findings that took me an hour of tests. Strychnine at such strength that one touch means death. Earlier today, there’d been a knock on the front door. When Mrs Hudson opened it, this roll of parchment lay on the mat, the deliverer gone. The roll had been left by a blousy woman in a red and black brocade dress, ornate hat, elbow-length gloves and walking with a slight limp.”

I clapped my hands. “Holmes, it’s my turn to be astounded. Your powers of deduction are extraordinary.”

“Actually, I saw her through the window while playing my violin. Nevertheless, when Mrs Hudson handed me the roll I was tempted to immediately open it. But curiosity got the better of my curiosity, if you follow me. As I held it close to examine the seal, I smelt the foul odour. That saved my life.”

Buttoning his smoking jacket, he carried the letter to his workbench at the far end of the room. On the crowded benchtop, a Bunsen burner flame flickered beneath a large glass pot of pale green liquid. Picking up various objects, he managed to hold down the edges of the parchment so we could read the schoolboy standard writing:

“I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. You got no chance of nicking me Shylock.”

I was puzzled. “That phrasing sounds …”

“Artificial,” Holmes cut in. “An educated person attempting to appear less so. The writing itself is stylised as if done in a classroom. As for the instrument used to write it, well, fortunately I recently completed a monograph on the history of quills. This note was written with a metal nibbed quill by a tall, left handed person by candlelight.”

Tentatively I thumbed what felt like Vellum. “And this?”

Using a pipette, Holms drew up green liquid from the bowl and let drops fall on the parchment.  It sizzled. “Human skin, Watson. Our letter writer has gone to some lengths to ensure this untanned skin has been scraped or dried under tension, giving it a medieval look.”

“Shylock? A misspelling?”

“A Shakespearean allusion, I’d hazard. As in the Bard’s ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’ A threat, indeed, from Jack the Ripper. To quote Henry V: ‘The game's afoot.’”

The horse pulling our cab seemed possessed. We sped through the dusk, avoiding crowded streets. Holmes had no need of diluted cocaine. This was the excitement he craved.

“There’s only one pen shop in London still selling quills with metal nibs – Wellings of Whitechapel,” he said as we raced down Commercial Road. “We must get there before it closes.”

Holmes was out of the cab and into the shop before I’d finished paying the driver. When I entered, Holmes was standing in front of a glass-topped display counter, admiring ranks of pens inside. The golden glow from tall candles on the counter set off the pens’ polished barrels. “Exquisite,” he said.

On the other side of the counter, a waistcoated man in late middle age, almost as tall and thin as Holmes, was slipping pound notes into a cash register drawer while carefully writing details on a nearby pad. Pushing the drawer shut, he gave a small smile. “Can I be of assistance?”

“Actually, I’ve found just what I was looking for, Mr Wellings, or should I say ‘Mr Ripper’?”

The smile broadened. “Without doubt, Mr Holmes, you’re the world’s greatest consulting detective.”

Holmes took a step back, keeping his eyes on the man’s hands. “Why bother to poison me?”

“The Peelers are fools. They’ll never catch me. But I knew one day, in some way, you’d get involved. I decided to act first.”

“I assume the woman who left the parchment was a Working Girl you hired.”

“Lots around these parts, willing to do anything for a few pence. What gave me away?”

“That unique quill you used led us here. And there you were, writing with your left hand in that overly neat script, each stroke bringing you closer to the hangman’s noose. Plus the droplets of candle wax – on your countertop and on the parchment you sent me.”

It was the Ripper’s turn to step backwards. “Purely circumstantial evidence, and I have alibis for the night of each of the Ripper’s five romps. As I said, Ladies of the Night will do or say anything for a handful of coins, even lie.”

Calmly, Holmes drew an ageing service pistol from his pocket. “Regrettably, you’re probably correct. You could indeed escape the gallows. Therefore, it’s fortunate for society you were the victim this evening of what the broadsheets may call ‘a robbery gone wrong’.”

He pulled the trigger. “Case solved, I’d venture, eh, Watson?”

# # #

Once again - apologies to Arthur Conan Doyle

Copyright 2019 GREG FLYNN

The Simple Art of Blackmail*

Lips glacé cherry-red. Raisin-dark hair swept back. Skin pale as blanched almonds. A slight whiff of brandy. She reminded Kent of …

“Fruit cake?” Sylvia Preen asked.

Taking the smallest slice from the proffered plate, he tried to balance the cake on the edge of his saucer. Milky tea from the cup slopped onto it. Abandoning the challenge, he placed the lot on a delicate table beside his chair.

Over Sylvia’s shoulder, a Catalina flying boat with RAAF roundels slipped away from its moorings and began picking up speed across Freshwater Bay.

In those distracted seconds, she’d morphed from delectable Peppermint Grove baked goods to avian predator. Her head was tilted to one side, eyes fixed on him. A seagull sizing up a discarded chip.

“I’m surprised a fit man like yourself isn’t in the Services.”

“Invalided out,” Kent lied.

She appeared unconvinced. “I read in The West this morning that we’ve retaken Kokoda from the Japs.”

“Then I’m definitely no longer needed.” Leaning forward, he held out a soft pack of cigarettes. They lit from their own lighters. “And I read Mr Preen has had an unfortunate accident.”

“If your idea of an accident is someone being stabbed in the back while wearing silk pyjamas at dawn on our private jetty, then yes.”

“You want me to find his killer?”

“Heavens, no, Mr Kent. The police asked me if my husband had any enemies. I handed them the Perth telephone directory.” She ashed her cigarette. “But I’m giving the matter more thought. Meanwhile, you’ve a reputation for being discrete – a private, private detective. I want you to find a very compromising sketch of me. I’m being blackmailed.”

Fifteen minutes later, Kent stood in the shade of a peppermint tree, the river foreshore a few feet away. A seagull, balanced on one leg, studied his polished shoe caps. Behind him, the Preen mansion almost blocked out the western sky. In front, dinghies bobbed at peace. He didn’t want to leave.

The car’s steering wheel was hot to the touch. Windows down, the beginnings of a sea breeze drying the perspiration on his shirt and suit jacket, he headed for Fremantle. His was one of the few civilian vehicles making their way into the port. The roads were crowded with Allied trucks, the footpaths with gob caps, duck caps, officers’ peaked caps. As he slowed at a busy corner, a pair of US Shore Patrol masters-at-arms, watching for Unauthorised Absence bluejackets, peered into the back seat of his car. In return, Kent considered asking them for American cigarettes.

Polari’s rented room was above an Italian restaurant. A knock on the room door went unanswered. Kent checked off a list of other places Sylvia suggested.

Searches of the first two pubs proved fruitless. Leaving the third, he saw the white singlet, the distinctive star tattoo on the muscular shoulder and the newsboy-style cap moments before their owner turned into a laneway.

“Polari!” Kent shouted.

The man could run, Kent gave him that. Left at the first cross street, right at the next. Twice, three times Polari thumped into the backs of ambling sailors. Obscenities followed the pair as they sprinted towards the wharves. High chain-link fences stretched west and east. Polari stopped, turned, pulled a switchblade from his back pocket and flicked it open. Kent bent forward, fought to catch his breath, straightened and tugged a service revolver from his jacket. “Bang, bang.”

Polari’s room seemed crowded even with just the two of them. A cast iron bed, a woollen crocheted blanket, a quilted cover. By the window, a large format book of sketching paper stood on an easel. The effect: austere but homely. Except for the artwork on the walls.

Kent gestured for Polari to sit on the bed. “You’ve a way with …”

“The ladies?” Polari cut in.

“Erotic illustrations. Are these the originals?”

“Of course, the world’s navies are in town. Those boys only want copies. This is a sweet little business.”

Gun still pointed at Polari’s chest, Kent leant across and tore a sketch from the wall. Sylvia Preen had at least had the decency to wear suspenders. She looked younger.

Polari protested as Kent folded the paper and tucked it into a pocket. Ignoring him, Kent pulled open the top drawer of a wooden dresser. A crisp British merchant seaman’s identity card was tucked under three singlets. More protests. Kent held up a hand. “Fake ID? Jumped ship? Purveying pornography? Oh, wait, I forgot blackmail.”

“The last one’s not as lucrative as you’d imagine.” Polari straightened up. “Do I get my knife back?”

“I’ll think about it.”

The maid said no. No Mrs Preen wasn't at home and no he couldn't wait until she returned. Lips drawn back to approximate a smile, he turned away. The breeze from the slamming door cooled his back. To the right across the bay, the impressive bulk of a yacht club sat on a low hill. Along the foreshore beneath the club, short jetties poked into the Swan River. A figure in white stood out from their bleached, grey wood.

As he approached, he could see the familiar tilt of Sylvia Preen’s head.

"Is this the jetty where your husband was murdered?"

"Are you making conversation or would you genuinely like to know?"

"Both."

She pointed to a dark stain on the wooden planks. A pause. “And the sketch?”

He drew the folded artwork from an inside pocket. “To be fair, it’s quite a good likeness.”

Her hand shot out, snatching the paper away. One quick glance to confirm it was the original then the tearing began. Within seconds, a flutter of pornographic confetti floated down to the water. A cluster of blowfish nuzzled the wet paper before losing interest.

Side-by-side they watched the paper drift amongst the pylons. Touching his arm, she asked: “What are you thinking?”

Kent didn’t react. He was thinking the now very rich merry widow had lured her unpleasant husband down to the jetty, killed him and was about to put the knife-happy Polari in the frame for the murder. But first she’d needed that sketch off the artist’s wall. Even a Fremantle copper would’ve recognised her – with or without underwear. If this was a just world I’d immediately turn her over to the police, Kent reflected.

But there was something more important than instant justice. His invoice. “I was thinking we should celebrate with a drink and with you paying my bill.”

“Cash or cheque, Mr Kent?”

“In this case, cash.”

# # #

* I’m extremely remorseful for the countless copyright infringements in this story

 Copyright 2019 GREG FLYNN

Folly & Sin

The vaporetto bumped twice against the Palazzo Pisani Moretta’s jetty before being hit by the wash of bigger, smarter vessels all competing for a berth. The night air felt as damp and cold as Inspector Boscolo’s knickers. Next time he’d stand throughout an open boat ride. He needed fresh underwear, a cheroot, a grappa and a pee.

Another wave smacked against the port side, knocking Boscolo into the arms of First Sergeant Fabbri. Catching the inspector’s elbow, she helped him up the short gangplank. On the crowded jetty in their ornate masquerade ball costumes, they looked as they felt: extras in an extravagant production to distract people with golden lives. If he had their money, Boscolo decided, he’d be at home with Tuscan tobacco, a full glass and an empty bladder. And wearing men’s underwear.

“Everyone is here.” Fabbri said. “At least try and look fabulous.” Spinning, her gold and black costume caught reflections off the Grand Canal.

Clumsily, Boscolo began rotating, his own ornate skirt almost scraping the wooden jetty boards. “How can you tell who’s famous? They’re all masked.”

Titling her head towards the palazzo’s steps, she indicated the paparazzi pack baying at new arrivals. The shouts gave an ultimatum – lift your masks or we won’t shoot. The Clooneys obeyed. Pitt and partner followed, masks tilted upwards. Paltrow too. They hadn’t flown 9,868 kms to be passed over in a red carpet photo op.

Stepping forward, Boscolo found himself briefly minus a shoe. Porca vacca! One of his high heels had caught between the boards. It’d been Fabbri’s idea for them to frock up for the event. He’d complained about the indignity of a senior Carabinieri investigator being in drag. Fabbri pointed out, again, that their suspect like most Italian males would assume a woman wasn’t a threat unlike a costumed man in a codpiece and a cocked hat. The target? Venice’s most audacious jewel thief: Il Gatto Nero.

“And the photographers? What’ll they make of an unmasked, middle-aged, stubble-cheeked man in a dress?”

“This is showbiz. There’re no surprises. But when we pass them, keep your mask on, take my hand, stare into my eyes and pretend you’re my girlfriend.”

For a moment, a very collegial thought crossed Boscolo’s mind but this was neither the night nor possibly the decade to pursue it.

Inside the 15^th Century palace, with the temperature struggling to rise one more degree, Il Ballo del Doge was swinging coolly. Trays of drinks circulated, as did the bejewelled guests. The event’s theme was Folly & Sin. There were air kisses and knowing touches. A tall man in a silver, apparently sprayed-on catsuit approached Boscolo and rested a hand on the inspector’s shoulder. “Such fun,” said the stranger. “Aren’t you loving it?”

“It’s my first masquerade ball,” Boscolo replied, failing to disguise his voice. “I’m determined not to enjoy it.”

In surprise, the man took a step back, then one forward. “Now this just got interesting.

Reaching out, Fabbri tugged at Boscolo’s sleeve. “Time to eat, bello.”

As the two police approached, platters of bigołi in salsa and fegato ała venesiana were being ferried to long communal dining tables. Boscolo was tempted, but nature was not so much calling as shrieking.

Fabbri led the way into the female toilets, suggesting he gather up his skirts and back into a cubicle. “I’ll make certain you’re not disturbed.”

This is the apex for what passes as a career, thought Boscolo as he felt blessed relief. A moment later, a small explosion and all went black.

Screams, gunfire, more explosions, more screams. In the dark, he clawed at the door lock. It was just that. Locked. He felt for the toilet lid, slammed it shut and clambered towards the old fashioned overhead cistern. With a push, he was up and over into the next cubicle, landing with a thump on the woman inside. “This is as undignified for you as for me,” he said, twisting the door lock open.

In the blacked-out ballroom, the screaming continued. Pulling off his mask, he slapped his sides. Somewhere inside the folds of his costume was his Beretta. “Light some candles, idioti!” he ordered.

Around the room, lighters flickered and a serene golden glow slowly lit up a less than serene scene. He found his gun. More screams. “Armed police!” he shouted. Even to him, it sounded unconvincing.

“My jewels!” wailed a woman to his right. “Your jewels? What about mine?” cried another to his left.

Struggling to flash his polizia ID and instead exposing his upper thigh, Boscolo blocked the path of a panicky security man. Details were sketchy. There’d been a series of explosions knocking out the electricity supply. A gun had been fired. Someone had moved swiftly through the ballroom, tearing necklaces and earrings from their owners.

Il Gatto Nero. Boscolo knew it. And Fabbri? Where’d she gone? The exits were jammed with squealing guests and staff. Boscolo pushed his way to the main stage and exited, left.

Immediately, he tripped, catching an edge of curtain to break his fall. Fabbri was lying on her back across the passageway. Her mask was torn off. Blood smeared her forehead. That way, she pointed, that way.

Boscolo staggered upright. Kicking off his shoes, he took two long strides before falling over the hem of his dress. This time he crashed onto a giant papier-mâché stage prop – a pirate’s treasure box. The lid and sides crumbled. Inside was a large black silk bag, its contents slipping out: one set of night goggles, multiple diamond necklaces, a cluster of pearl earrings … and then a metallic click.

Fabbri was standing above him, her gun pointed at his head. “I’ll take those,” she said.

“Would you mind also taking this damn outfit?” he asked. “It’s served its purpose.”

“You’ll have to admit, Commissario, it was all terribly clever. Who’d guess a mere woman – and a copper – was the thief?”

“Will you be leaving a forwarding address? It’d save me a lot of bother later.”

Reaching down, she began scooping up the jewels. Stretching across, he grabbed her ankle and pulled hard. She came down on top of him. Rolling, they crashed into the backstage bric-à-brac, her gun disappearing beneath a stack of hat boxes.

From the stage wings, a smooth voice called out. Boscolo twisted his head to see.

Silhouetted against the light, the man in the silver catsuit was standing with his hands on both hips. “This is my kinda party. Mind if I join in?’

Fabbri shook herself free. “Francamente, I’d rather surrender.”

# # #

 Copyright 2019 GREG FLYNN

The Man Who Shot Hitler

[Inspired by true events.]

“Papers.” An order, not a request.

Without looking up, Müller reached inside his coat, withdrew a tattered identification document and handed it to the official. Feet spread for balance in the swaying railway carriage, the official studied the paper then peered down at the household brush salesman with his frayed shirt collar, dowdy suit and large, battered sample case tucked under the seat.

Müller offered a small, tight smile. It wasn’t returned, his identification was. Through the soot-spattered carriage windows, the Schöneberg district was a blur. Ten minutes later, the train drew into the station servicing the Berlin Sportpalast arena.

Waving away a porter, Müller lifted the sample case onto the platform and braced himself before carrying it into the street – a beaten man, facing another day explaining the merits of stiff coconut fibre bristles to disinterested hausfraus.

Excited, chatty Berliners pressed around him as they made for the indoor arena. The lure of Hitler, the nation’s 1930s matinée idol, drew them to the ornate, domed building. Müller felt himself being swept along by a rush of men and women in hats and youths in brown shirts.

Near the Sportpalast’s main entrance, Müller found the toilets. An odor, equal parts disinfectant and stale urine, rose to meet him. Choosing the furthest cubicle, he placed the case on the toilet seat and popped the latches. A SS uniform was tucked neatly inside a false bottom. In the cramped cubicle, he struggled like a contortionist to get out of his suit and into the uniform. The calf-hugging, polished boots were tight, uncomfortable. Pistol checked, Müller left the case on the seat and used a hairpin to lock the cubicle door.

As he rejoined the crowd, he heard the command: “Papers, Oberleutnant.” Definitely not a request. The lieutenant flashes on his uniform didn’t require deference. Two Wehrmacht guards, both edgy, blocked his way. It wasn’t personal. Wearing a sidearm, he expected to be stopped. This time he handed over two crisp documents, the first his identification, the second on a white card giving him permission to stand in the front ranks at the rally.

The older guard handed back the documents together with a smile. “You’re with the SS-Standarte. Congratulations. Is my old schoolfriend Dieter Schmidt still creating mischief there?”

A trap. Tipping his head slightly to one side, Müller said: “There’s no Dieter Schmidt in the SS-Standarte.” He met the guard’s gaze. “Perhaps he left before I joined.”

“Perhaps. Heil Hitler.”

Touching his heels together with a casual click, Müller turned away. A calculated guess and the white card allowed him to edge down the busy main aisle to reach the apron of the stage just as the event host, Reich Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels, crossed to the podium.

Standing with a handful of fellow officers, Müller looked up towards Goebbels’ pale face and prepared to wait out the introductory speech.

Finally, the Führer appeared. A wave of noise from the audience’s roar washed over Müller. “Sieg Heil!”

Perspiration ran down both sides of his body. Wiping his right palm on his jacket, he drew in two breaths, pulled the Luger from its holster, aimed and began pulling the trigger. He lost count of the number of times. Possibly three, no more. A blow from the right knocked his pistol aside, the following punches sent him to the floor. The rage was animalistic. Boots flailed, spittle showered down. Then he felt himself being dragged away, his heels gouging parallel tracks in the floorboards.

Lashed to an ornate, upright chair – a stage prop, Müller decided, even through the pain – he kept his head back to try to stop the bleeding from his nose. His right eye was partly closed, puffy, pummelled red. Around the room, silent men watched, waited.

Goebbels entered. Thin, neat, supremely confident, he looked at the men. “Get out.”

No-one moved. “Are you disobeying orders?” Goebbels asked, his voice soft. Within seconds, he and Müller were alone.

Goebbels held his face close to Müller’s: “Do you know of H. L. Mencken?”

“The American writer?”

“I’ll forgive him his nationality for this one quote: ‘The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed, and hence clamorous to be led to safety, by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary.’”

“Like you and me, Reich Minister.”

“Precisely. And I must congratulate you. Extraordinary shooting. But what else could I expect from the marksman hero of Passchendaele, even if we lost that battle? Indeed, if your aim had been two centimetres to the left today, we would have lost the Führer too. All Germany rejoices that he was unharmed.”

Müller felt a cigarette being pushed between his lips. A lighter flicked. Hands still tied, he tried to draw in the smoke.

Goebbels sounded almost apologetic. “Obviously I can’t untie you … yet. The crowd now needs to see my men load you into a car. The message will be clear: a piano wire noose awaits any traitor.”

Müller opened his mouth, the cigarette falling to the floor. “When can I see my family?”

“Let’s see. How many times have you created such wonderful assassin disguises? Three?”

“This was the fourth.”

“A threatened nation is an obedient nation, so I think one more attempt on the Führer’s life this year should be sufficient.” There was a moment before a cold smile appeared. “You can visit your family before that date.” Another pause. “To encourage you.”

Müller could feel the blood drying in his nostrils. Painfully, he closed both eyes, picturing his wife and two sons. Goebbels had allowed him to see them once in the last three years. The coming meeting would be different. In Müller’s apartment, sown into the lining of his mattress, he had hidden fresh papers, beautifully forged. His contact who created so many fake identification and travel papers in the past had succumbed to that most elemental of emotions – greed. Finally, Müller’s family would escape Germany. He would stay. At the next rally, the bullets would fly two centimetres to the left.

# # #

Copyright 2019 GREG FLYNN