On the Case!

 

Artwork By Sam Mendonca

On The Case!

By Mike Stevens

An Inspector Haberdashery Tale

 

     The cold rain came down in sheets on the head of Inspector Walt Haberdashery as he dismounted from the horse known as Replacement in a little-used side alley.  He hadn't had much choice, as all the other horses were taken.  His police station had been called out to investigate a particularly heinous crime.  That word always cracked him up; heinous.  Call him immature but he couldn't help it.  Someone, as yet unknown, had beaten a man so severely he would be hard to identify.   It was a gruesome crime, but he had a job to do.  Distastefully, he rolled the dead man over onto his back, and started to check his pockets.  As he was checking, the dead man gasped and looked right at him.  He recoiled with shock.  The lump of pulp was still alive!  Unfortunately he had forgotten to do the first thing he was supposed to do; make sure the victim was indeed deceased.  The victim was trying to whisper something and Haberdashery bent down close to hear. 

 

     Try as he might, he couldn't make heads or tails out of what the man was trying to say; "What, you'll have to speak up."

 

     The pulp mumbled what sounded like a something ending in 'you' and then tried again, "H--aar---c--ord!" then his head flopped limply to the cobblestones and this time Haberdashery would have bet the man was truly dead.  Harcord, was that the clue?  The only Harcord that he knew was Alexander Harcord, but he couldn't have had anything to do with this, as he was currently locked up in prison. 

 

     "My dear man, what did he say?"

 

     He answered absent-mindedly, "Harcord" before thinking that he knew that voice; the idiotic voice that could only belong to one man, his nemesis, Sherlock Fricking Holmes.  "What the hell are you doing here, Holmes?"

 

     "Let's see, the crime happened literally steps down the street from my apartment.  Gee, I don't know why  I'm here!"

 

     "Why you smart-a*s, just once I'd like to get a non-sarcastic answer from you, is that such a hard thing to ask, Mr. High and Mighty Prick?"  Actually he'd completely forgotten it was on Baker Street, the same street that Holmes lived on.

 

    From behind Holmes came an angry response from his portly sidekick and roommate, Dr. Watson.  "Cut the bullshit my dear fellow, and just tell us your theory."

 

     Bullshit was it?  "Fine, Porker, I believe that someone, probably not this Harcord, beat the victim to death, using either his fists, or more likely, a heavy object."

 

     Watson began his angry reply, but Holmes interrupted, "Why have you ruled out Harcord.  It seems elementary to me that he's a good suspect for your murderer; what possible reason would the victim have to lie?  He was well aware he was about to check out of The Living Room."

 

     As much as he wanted to rip to shreds what Holmes had said, Haberdashery knew it was a valid point, what possible reason indeed?  "Well, the fact that Harcord is a well-respected gentleman, for example.  Hardly the kind of man who would be capable of doing something like this; he's purely a white-collar criminal."

 

     "For all we know Jack the Ripper could throw ice cream socials too!"

 

     "Oh, you just had to throw the name Jack the Ripper in my face!"

    

     "Well, my dear fellow, are you going to complain that I'm being too honest?  After all, it has made you police look rather incompetent."

 

     Haberdashery felt the all-too-familiar rage surge through his brain and before he could stop himself, he was grabbing Holmes by the throat and trying to squeeze the life from him.  As he was squeezing he was screaming, "Making us look incompetent; how about you, the great Sherlock Holmes?  I don't see you doing much solving of this case!" and he tried to squeeze even harder.

 

     Suddenly he was knocked sideways off of Holmes by a heavy object, which turned out to be Dr. Watson, who had gotten a running start and plowed into Haberdashery.  The detective never had a chance when struck by the overwhelming girth of the good doctor.  He found himself flailing helplessly at the air until he and Watson landed on the cobblestones in a tangled heap. 

 

     "Knock it off; s**t!" shouted Watson, who looked red-in-the-face to Haberdashery; of course that's how he always looked to Haberdashery.   

     

 

******

 

 

     After limping off and leaving Holmes and Watson screaming obscenities at his back, Haberdashery had investigated Alexander Harcord,  but the investigation had hit a stone wall, namely the outside of Fleet Prison, where Harcord had been, and continued to be, locked up.  Once he had confirmed this, Haberdashery was stumped.

 

 

******

 

 

     Palo Ballarino indulged his pre-murder routine, playing the harpsichord.  True, it had been supplanted for the most part by the piano, but that's precisely what drew him to it. 

 

 

     He was driven by unseen voices telling him to kill.  He was well aware that he was quite insane, but yet was unable to overcome the urge.  There was something about the sound; when he heard it, something snapped in his brain; and he had a burning desire to kill.  Except now he had a terrible problem; one that he had yet to figure a way out of.  The very sound of the harpsichord set off the killing desire, but lately the sound it made was out of tune. 

 

 

     He had thought he could control it long enough to have it tuned, but once the guy who had shown up to tune it had begun to play, he'd succumbed to the rage and beat the guy's head in with a table leg.  Then he had panicked and hauled the guy out to his wagon, and from there, to an alley off the deserted main street; luckily it was dark because the body leaked incredible amounts of blood the entire way.  But the torrential rain would wash that away before anyone found the body.  Without a blood trail to follow the police would have no reason to connect him to the murder.  He checked the drawer to make sure the steamship tickets for the ship that would take him back to Italy were still where they should be, and slipped out the door to find one last victim before boarding that ship.

 

 

******

 

 

     Detective Haberdashery swore to himself; nothing was going his way.  The framed plaque of The Detective of the Year award he'd received from The London Women's Flower Society was just out of reach and if ever there was a time he needed reassurance that he was a good detective, this was it.  This latest case had drained him of confidence.  Not to mention his inability to think of another way to hurt that throbbing tool, Sherlock Holmes.  Sure, an award from The Women's Flower Society may not seem like much but it was the only award he'd ever won, and he wanted to look at it again.  Let's see, what can I use to stand on? he thought.  There was an empty wooden beer case; so he grabbed it and set it below the frame-in-question.  He climbed up on it and now he could reach it.  He took the plaque off the wall, jumped off the case, and went to his recliner, already feeling a little bit better about himself.

 

The End

Reviews

[Marie]

I finally understood. The victim ws trying to say "harpsicord." Of course Inspector Haberdashery will never figure that out. I wonder what he got the plaque from the Flower Society for? Making good fertilizer?

[Michael Stevens]

I think you're right Marie!