I was jolted out of my paper asphyxiation by the sound of sensible shoes clomping down the boardwalk hallway. Women who looked like they might’ve typed up the Ten Commandments on shale foolscap started trooping by my open door, headed for the meeting room. It wasn’t their George Washington hairdos that threw me; it was their flagrantly Colombian features.

  Grace creaked by, stopped, and informed me of what she wanted me to believe was going on. “A delegation of foreign tatters is in town, Clint, and we were just going to have a short meeting to discuss cross-cultural crocheting and frond-basket free trade. We’ll try not to be too rowdy,” she cackled, and shut the door on me.

  I couldn’t have swallowed her story if I’d been Linda Lovelace; it had all the integrity of a Soviet light bulb patent. I girded my loins, rose from the table, and pressed my ear to the paper mache wall that separated the office from the meeting room. Initially, all I heard was crinkling, crackling, and groaning—the ancient hoodlums seating themselves—but then the topic of cranky conversation quickly turned to drugs.

  Ah-ha! I thought to no one but myself. I forged my thoughts into action and rattled the door of my cage. Locked! Grace’s treachery surprised me no more than Walter Mondale’s concession speech six months in advance of presidential election night—I’d found traces of Oil of Olay and Ben Gay amongst my audit papers the day after the first day of the audit. She’d been nosing around like an aardvark with a sinus problem. But if she thought for one frothy nanosecond that a locked door was going to stop me from exhuming her shenanigans, she, and the good people at Weiser, were sadly mistaken.

  I turned the entry/exitway into wooden shrapnel with a pile-driving boot from my steel-toed brogan and charged down the hall and through the meeting room door. “Freeze!” I cried out.

  It was a tableau right out of Dante’s Inferno: eleven swarthy, hard-bitten South American biddies and Grace, the oldest unrestored structure in Western Canada, crowded around a doll-scattered boardroom table, tittering together as they planned their plans of world domination and clucking grotesquely as they assembled a visionary PERT chart that ended in the drug-polluted minds of a lost generation of tweens. I swallowed some righteous backflow, and, honestly, it tasted good.

  “Did you have a question for me, Clint?” Grace asked, her parchment face as placid as a Death Valley dirt lake.

  “Si,” I glowered. “I wanna know what these dolls are made of?” I gestured at the ragamuffins lying about on the table. “Not sunshine and lollipops, I’ll wager!?”

  I trundled over to the table, casting aspersions right and left, mostly left, on the nation of Colombia as I advanced, and grabbed up one of the dolls. It looked like Queen Victoria as a full-grown child. I tore its widow-weeded head off and raised up its gruesome corpse like a primordial war club.

  “Who wants to bet me that when I take a blowtorch to Barbie’s great-great-grandmother here, she bleeds pure Colombian nose candy!? South American rock salt!” I turned my brimstone eyes on the nearest brown-betty who was dabbing at her nose with a wrist-mounted hanky. “Ever seen it snow in the tropics, Mother Earth!? Well, I have!”

  My pulpit-thumping stirred the aged dope damsels to action, as I’d hoped it would.

  Grace yelled something in Bogotá street Spanish that was probably, “Go, girls!”, and a pack of wrinkly crime lords dove at me like the Canadian senior women’s water polo team.

  I tossed the decapitated doll aside, gave a battlefield roar, and got busy with my hands and feet. Two old crows met my fists in a love embrace and folded up like weathered barns in a duststorm. A withered wench kicked me in the groin, but broke her rheumatoid toes on my steel-capped hockey jock. She wrenched her back by grabbing at her mangled mule, and I sent her puss an uppercut that started in the heated, underground parking garage and ended just above her wattle. Her wig cannonaded off her cadaverous skull and she straightened up like a graffiti artist at boot camp.

  Blows started raining down on me like featherdusters, but the gnarled joy-toy grannies had seen a little too much of life and not near enough of death. I dispatched the last of the fantasy farmers with a knee to the dusty groin and faced Grace one-on-one.

  “What a rude young man you are!” she swore, and then scooped up a fistful of humbugs and charged.

  She threw the ball of candy at me and I let it bounce harmlessly off my scar-flecked faceplate. “Mandatory retirement time,” I gritted through clenched teeth.

  She sailed into me like she was the Titanic and I one-tenths of an iceberg. I squeezed the frail scarecrow to my Bunyan carcass in a crushing bearhug and heard her ribs snap like kindling in a petrified forest. She bit off a chunk of my ear and spat it in my face, a bilious smile cracking her fuzz-rimmed lips. She slumped into blessed unconsciousness before she could dine on my nose. I let her body crumple to the floor, and then wiped my feet on it. The stink of Henna was upon me, but my flared nostrils detected yet another odor—justice.

  * * * *

  I stared at Vanya and Spud through the bars of my cell.

  “Why’d you beat up all those old ladies?” Spud asked for the hundredth time.

  I ignored his impertinence and shone my spotlights on Vanya. “When’s Twinkle springing for the bail money!?” I shouted over the gruesome sound of some con finishing off his dinner with a visit to the galvanized Canadian Tire washroom pail behind me.

  “When hell freezes over, is what he said,” she replied.

  I checked my mental calendar—November. “Another month then.”

  A cop built like a house, complete with a spacious veranda overhanging his belt, waddled into the sorry picture. “Yer free to go, Magnum,” he said.

  “Huh?” Spud asked.

  “Yeah,” the cop replied.

  I brought the conversation out of the Stone Age by asking, “How come?”

  “Revenue Canada jes’ ruled that the dolls those crafty old bags were importing from Columbia aren’t talkin’ dolls, and, therefore, not political refugees with GST-exempt status, as defined in the Immigration Tax Act. It’s gonna be hard time for Grace Goode—and probably eventual Canadian citizenship for those Colombian oldsters.” The cop rubbed his fire-engine face in exhaustion.

  “Huh?” Spud asked again.

  “Yeah,” the cop replied again.

  As we strutted out into the ice-fogged dawn, I heard Vanya sigh, “You’re lucky, Clint.”

  I snorted, showering Spud with my viscous contempt. “You don’t want to be Goode to be lucky,” I cracked.

  d

  Laird Long: Big guy, sense of humor; pounds out fiction in all genres. Has appeared in many anthologies and mystery magazines and resides in Winnipeg, Canada.

  THE PURLOINED PLATYPUS

  A Nero Wolfe Mystery

  by Marvin Kaye

  At a few minutes after eleven that summer morning Wolfe entered the office and we exchanged our usual pleasantries, I told him that we’d had a call from Benjamin Moultrie.

  He sat down in the chair reinforced to bear his seventh of a ton, rang for beer and then said, “That’s a familiar name, but I don’t remember why.”

  “He’s president and board chairman of M–S–O–P.”

  “M–SOP? What on earth is that?”

  “It stands for the Museum of the Strange, Odd and Peculiar. It’s on the corner of 29th and Third Avenue.”

  “I’ve been mildly curious about that place,” he said as he poured beer. “I’ve actually considered visiting it.”

  Wonder of wonders! I thought.

  “So what does Mr. Moultrie want?” he asked.

  “To be our next client.” I knew it was unlikely, given the healthy condition of the bank account, but Wolfe said, “Ask him to be here tonight at nine.”

  I was surprised … but when I thought about it, I realized why Wolfe was in a good mood. Yesterday he’d received an invitation to visit his favorite orchid grower Lewis Hewitt at his estate on Long Island. That in itself wouldn’t have made him so cheerful, for though he does enjoy visiting Hewitt, it still means enduring two long rides with white knuckles. But he’d been pestering his friend for years for a cutting of Hewitt’s two rarest orchids and he finally said yes.

  Before he changed his mind, I called Moultrie. He said he’d arrive promptly at nine.

  * * * *

  Good as his word, he rang on the hour sharp. I examined him through the peephole. He could have his picture in the dictionary under “Dandy.” Middle-height with sleek black hair, he sported a trim mustache and a monocle. He wore a three-piece suit and tie; both looked expensive. Because it was a warm day in August, he had neither a topcoat or hat. I welcomed him and brought him to the office, buzzing Wolfe in the kitchen to cue his grand entrance. I had Moultrie sit in the red leather chair.

  “Good evening,” said Wolfe, entering and taking his seat. Fritz was right behind him with a pilsner glass and two bottles of Nordik Wolf beer, which I suspected he wanted to try because of its name. “As you see, sir, I am having beer. Would you care for a drink?”

  “Thank you,” the museum director said. “Either red wine or brandy would be appreciated.” I told him what we had and he chose a snifter of Armagnac, which he sipped and proclaimed superb.

  “I’ve been interested in your museum for some time,” said Wolfe, as he sampled Nordik Wolf.

  Moultrie smiled. “You must come as our guest. My granddaughter Daphne says it’s cool.”

  “I rarely leave the house, but I believe I will make an exception in this case. However, I do not think you are here because of the museum, are you?”

  “Actually, Mr. Wolfe, I am. We’ve had a robbery.”

  “Oh? What was taken?”

  “An extremely valuable platinum figurine in the form of a platypus. Its bill, feet and tail are gold and its eyes are two large diamonds.”

  “That sounds plenty valuable,” I said.

  “Yes. Its materials alone are worth a small fortune, but its ultimate value is historical. Though unconfirmed, it is believed to have been a gift from the Indian ruler of that time to none other than Kubla Khan. It was found at Xanadu, which was Kubla Khan’s palace.”

  Wolfe finished his beer and tossed its cap in the drawer of his desk. He said to me, “By the way, Archie, this is superior.”

  “Glad to hear it. It’s a shame they don’t spell it with an E.”

  “Now don’t be flippant.” He opened the second bottle, poured, adjusted the bead, sipped and then returned to Benjamin Moultrie. “Before I decide whether to take on your problem, you should know that my fee is large … some clients say exorbitant.”

  “I am aware of that. We are prepared to meet your price.”

  “When you say ‘we’ do you refer to other museum officers?”

  Moultrie shook his head. “We do have a treasurer. His name is Michael Faraday. He operates out of his office at a Madison Avenue brokerage firm. But I wasn’t counting him when I used the collective. I always include the museum itself.”

  Wolfe smiled. “I find that droll. Well, sir, what would you have me do? Find the missing figurine, or do you also wish me to apprehend the thief?”

  “Both. It is likely that the culprit works for us.”

  “How many staff members do you employ?”

  He held up one hand with all fingers raised. “Five. There’s the cashier—”

  “Please provide their names and details about them.”

  “Very well. Larry Winters is our cashier. He is a young man in his early thirties. Then there’s the gift shop clerk, an attractive young woman, Linda Andelman. She and Larry are, as they say, ‘an item.’ The other three employees are security guards. They all wear uniforms with badges and caps. There’s the daytime officer. His name is Mason Russell and he is, I believe, in his late fifties. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife. The night-time guard is Harold Johnson, a tall black man, unmarried, who lives in Greenwich Village. The last of the five is Marc Porterfield. He works the weekend shifts, day and night. He actually sleeps at the museum. Unmarried, very private. That’s all I know about him except that he just had his forty-fifth birthday.”

  Wolfe finished his beer. “Mr. Moultrie, I have decided to take your case. My fee will be fifty thousand dollars, half payable before I begin. The second half, plus expenses, will be due when I have located the figurine and perhaps also identify the thief—but if I cannot do either, the fee still stands.”

  “That is acceptable.” He took out his checkbook and pen and began to write. He proffered the check, which Wolfe read and passed to me. Then he said, “Archie, tomorrow I am going to cancel my morning session with the orchids. As soon as we finish breakfast, you will drive me to the museum, park and join me inside.”

  * * * *

  We arrived a little before 9:30. Parking wasn’t a problem. I put it in a lot. The cost would be part of our expenses.

  When I entered the museum and greeted Benjamin Moultrie, I saw Wolfe standing next to an attractive redhead, who was helping him browse through the gift shop. Every time it looked as if he might buy something, our client tried to give it to him as a gift, but Wolfe said no.

  “Thank you, but this would not be a legitimate expense. If I choose to purchase anything, I will pay for it.” He saw me. “Ah, Archie, you found a parking space.”

  “I put it in a lot.”

  He nodded. “Now let us begin.”

  Moultrie asked if he intended to interview his staff.

  “Later. First, please show us the museum, including the spot where the figurine was before it was taken.”

  * * * *

  There are six exhibit rooms, though Moultrie said he plans to open at least three more (insurrections, mutinies and revolutions; art, literature and music; U. S. presidential memorabilia). First he took us into a chamber filled with Egyptian artifacts such as statuary and vases; there were two mummies in their cases. “Those are authentic,” our host said as he polished his monocle.

  By contrast, the second room he guided us to was filled with comic book art, both American and foreign. I saw complete runs of Action, Archie, Classic Comics and its later incarnation, Classics Illustrated, Donald Duck, Mad, Pogo, Spy Smasher, The Spirit, Star Wars and various others. One large display case featured radio tie-ins such as Captain Midnight and Little Orphan Annie decoders, a Tom Mix Indian Arrowhead, The Lone Ranger western town, which, fully assembled, takes up a great deal of space. In one corner stood an array of figurines of Walt Disney characters: Daisy and Donald Duck, nephews Huey, Dewey and Louie, Goofy, Mickey and Minnie Mouse, Pluto, Uncle Scrooge and more.

  I could have spent hours browsing and reading—Moultrie said all contents were on video so the originals needn’t be handled. Wolfe, however, was not interested and was ready to move on, so I promised myself to come back.

  The third room was devoted to odd and often bizarre medical things. These greatly interested Wolfe, but he said, “I’d like to spend some time here, but for now let us see the other rooms.” We passed briefly through a room devoted to the supernatural with exhibits of ghosts, ghouls, monsters, vampires, witches and wizards and were-things. Number five contained food and drink that would be right at home on Andrew Zimmern’s Travel Channel shows Bizarre Foods and Bizarre Foods America.

  When we entered the last room, which was devoted to Asian culture, Moultrie waved at an empty pad on a shelf inside a display case. “That’s where the platypus was kept. The glass is quite thick; almost unbreakable.” He opened his cell phone and showed us a photo of the platinum platypus.

  “Archie,” Wolfe asked, “is your phone capable of taking pictures?” I said yes. “Then see if you can copy the platypus from Mr. Moultrie.” He waited till I did it, then turned to the museum officer and asked, “How many keys are there to this case?”

  “Three. I have one set of all our keys and so does our treasurer. The third set is held by the senior security guard Mason Russell. He passes it to the night-time guard, who returns it to Mason each morning.”

  He nodded. “Mr. Moultrie, we will adjourn for lunch. When we return, I will want to speak to all available members of your staff. Perhaps you can arrange for the other guards to meet me at my office. Also Mr. Faraday. The sooner the better.”

  On our way out, he said, “Hopefully, our afternoon session won’t take long and I’ll be able to go up to the orchids at four. In the meantime, please prepare a camera. I want you to take photos in one of the rooms we’ve been to, also measurements.”

  “Which one? What pictures should I take and what measurements?”

  He told me.

  * * * *

  I couldn’t figure why he wanted pictures of a room that he showed no interest in, but when I got back I took them and then joined him just as he was about to question Larry Winters, the cashier. He’s a young man with blue eyes and blond hair so light it’s almost white. His suit was the kind of pastel hue you often see on houses in Hawaii. He said hello to me and shook my hand, then told Wolfe he hoped he could help him find the missing statuette.

  “I notice that we are the only people in the museum,” Wolfe remarked.

  “We get busier in the afternoon.”

  Wolfe indicated the woman behind the counter in the gift shop. “I understand that you and Ms. Andelman are seeing one another.”

  Larry smiled. “Yes, we are. I’ve been saving money and working up the courage to propose to her.”

  I told him good luck.

  “One more question,” said Wolfe. “Do you have a set of museum keys?”

  “No. Once in a while the night guard might ask me to pass them along to Mason, our day guard.”

  “Has that happened recently?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think so.”