avevale_intelligencer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
avevale_intelligencer) wrote2007-07-27 01:36 am
avevale_intelligencer) wrote2007-07-27 01:36 am
From The Casefiles Of Easy Street, no 17: Death By Blunt Instrument
"The method was ingenious," Feinblum was saying to the clustered reporters, as sleek and smug as if he'd worked it all out for himself. "The murderer wired the rim of one of the timpani--that's kettledrums to you--up to the main breaker. When Shirinin went to tune the drum, he was electrocuted, the lights went out, and Ainsley simply pulled the wire free with his foot, dragged Shirinin behind the curtain and threw him down the trapdoor which he had previously opened. He died a few minutes later."
I turned away. I had, after all, heard it all before, and in my own voice.
"So you found the killer," Harry said. "Great. But we still don't have the formula."
"I still think Alexei was trying to say where he put it," I said. "In that cell phone message to Ostrovsky."
"He said 'my coal field,'" Harry said. "He doesn't have a coal field, Easy, we checked. Or a gold field, or a cold field, or any of those things. No real estate at all. Besides, from Ainsley's confession we know he had it with him in the concert hall. He didn't have time to put it anywhere else."
"Hey, boss," Tambo said. I ignored him.
"So what do you think he meant?"
"How the hell should I know? He was dying, half out of his mind with pain. He could have been saying 'my cold feet.' Maybe his feet were cold. Or maybe," Harry went on, "he was talking about having cold feet about selling the formula and that's why he got killed."
"Hey, boss."
I waved at Tambo to shut up. "Then the formula must still be here."
"We searched," Harry said crossly. "We opened every drum, we used metal detectors, magnets--if there was a microfilm or a disc anywhere it'd be blank now anyway. We found zip. It's vanished. Maybe he ate it."
"Mister Street!"
Tambo never calls me Mister Street. I often wish he would, or something besides "boss." I turned round, and he leaned in close and whispered in my ear. I turned back to Harry with a big shit-eating grin.
"What kind of music do you like, Harry?"
"What? Uh...Country and Western, polkas, that kind of thing. What the hell has that--"
I nodded. "Me, I prefer Dixieland. Ostrovsky's a pure classical buff. But Alexei Shirinin had slightly more catholic tastes. And that's why we would never have found the formula if it hadn't been for Tambo here." I swear the guy lifted an inch off the floor when I said that. "See, Shirinin didn't trust all that high-tech stuff, discs and microfilm and all that jazz. He wrote the formula down on paper."
"We didn't find any paper either, Easy."
"Because we weren't looking for paper. And I misheard what he said." I sent up a silent apology to Alexei's ghost for that. "What does the name 'Mike Oldfield' mean to you, Harry?"
While he was thinking about it, I went over to the rack of shining brass tubes, lifted each one in turn, and felt around inside till I found the edge of the rolled-up sheets of paper. Feinblum was still pontificating away on the other side of the room, grabbing all the glory. That was okay. He could have the murder. I'd just saved the world.
"Here's your formula, Harry," I said. "No extra charge."
I turned away. I had, after all, heard it all before, and in my own voice.
"So you found the killer," Harry said. "Great. But we still don't have the formula."
"I still think Alexei was trying to say where he put it," I said. "In that cell phone message to Ostrovsky."
"He said 'my coal field,'" Harry said. "He doesn't have a coal field, Easy, we checked. Or a gold field, or a cold field, or any of those things. No real estate at all. Besides, from Ainsley's confession we know he had it with him in the concert hall. He didn't have time to put it anywhere else."
"Hey, boss," Tambo said. I ignored him.
"So what do you think he meant?"
"How the hell should I know? He was dying, half out of his mind with pain. He could have been saying 'my cold feet.' Maybe his feet were cold. Or maybe," Harry went on, "he was talking about having cold feet about selling the formula and that's why he got killed."
"Hey, boss."
I waved at Tambo to shut up. "Then the formula must still be here."
"We searched," Harry said crossly. "We opened every drum, we used metal detectors, magnets--if there was a microfilm or a disc anywhere it'd be blank now anyway. We found zip. It's vanished. Maybe he ate it."
"Mister Street!"
Tambo never calls me Mister Street. I often wish he would, or something besides "boss." I turned round, and he leaned in close and whispered in my ear. I turned back to Harry with a big shit-eating grin.
"What kind of music do you like, Harry?"
"What? Uh...Country and Western, polkas, that kind of thing. What the hell has that--"
I nodded. "Me, I prefer Dixieland. Ostrovsky's a pure classical buff. But Alexei Shirinin had slightly more catholic tastes. And that's why we would never have found the formula if it hadn't been for Tambo here." I swear the guy lifted an inch off the floor when I said that. "See, Shirinin didn't trust all that high-tech stuff, discs and microfilm and all that jazz. He wrote the formula down on paper."
"We didn't find any paper either, Easy."
"Because we weren't looking for paper. And I misheard what he said." I sent up a silent apology to Alexei's ghost for that. "What does the name 'Mike Oldfield' mean to you, Harry?"
While he was thinking about it, I went over to the rack of shining brass tubes, lifted each one in turn, and felt around inside till I found the edge of the rolled-up sheets of paper. Feinblum was still pontificating away on the other side of the room, grabbing all the glory. That was okay. He could have the murder. I'd just saved the world.
"Here's your formula, Harry," I said. "No extra charge."
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First The Exorcist, and now this association on top of it. Thank you. Just when I thought I could not be more warped....
j/k
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