“It’s him. It has to be him! He said he had been here when we were away. He’s a thief, a crook! Do something! Call the police! Grab him!”
Kristian Grossman escaped through the garden as fast as his legs could carry him, cleared the fence in one bound, and jumped into the car. He was soaked with sweat and anger, and swore to himself as he made his way through traffic. He had been fooled, but he would have his revenge by bashing Johanne Kram’s head in if it was the last thing he did.
However, there was no opportunity for revenge. He stood paralyzed on the threshold of the apartment where he had laid down so many hours of work towards his goal. The woman in the doorway wasn’t Johanne, she was far younger and prettier, and she giggled as he completed his stuttering explanation.
“Come here, girls!” she cried over her shoulder to a couple of other girls of the same age. “We have a gentleman caller. He’s quite good-looking, but I think he has sunstroke. He claims that someone named Johanne Kram lives here and refuses to believe that the flat belongs to me, Tina Hoff. Isn’t he exciting? But then, maybe it’s his way of picking up women. Nothing would surprise me about men.”
Confronted with the laughing, mocking women, he lost his capacity for speech. He snarled at them like an animal, then got into the car, trembling with anger. “I have to get home,” he thought in a panic, “home to calm down with a stiff drink.”
He returned to his own flat, but the sight that met him there was not very inspiring with respect to calming him down. Two stocky men were going through his belongings. They didn’t seem at all perturbed when he appeared.
“What on earth is this supposed to mean?” said Kristian Grossman with a feeble voice.
The elder of them, a short, stocky man in his mid forties, smiled coolly.
“Police, Grossman. Inspector Lien here. We have a search warrant.”
He wafted a piece of paper under Grossman’s nose.
“We’ve been busy while you were away, Grossman. Look at what we’ve found.”
He held up a transparent plastic bag containing something heavy and golden. Kristian Grossman’s heart sank. It was the candlestick he had handled, the small “wedding present” promised to him by “Nadja Kram.”
“And of course you’ve never laid eyes on this before?”
“No. I mean... yes.”
Inspector Lien grinned.
“Aha, Mr. Grossman. You seem to be the decisive type. That makes everything so much easier. Well, well, you can decide what you want to tell managing director Gerhard Kram. He’s just as receptive to excuses as a Spanish bull is to sugar cubes.”
Kristian Grossman paled.
Lien held up another piece of paper.
“Tell me, now, have you seen this before? A copy of a receipt for a withdrawal of one hundred and fifty thousand from the Trust Bank. In an assumed name, no less. A hidden account, in other words. My, that’s quite a find for our beloved, but feared, public prosecutor Ladvik.”
The other policeman, who had been gone for a while, reappeared and spoke quietly to Lien. Lien nodded, then grinned once again at Grossman.
“Well, well, I must say. You have the nerve to drive around in the Italian ambassador’s car. Are you not aware that that could seriously harm your health? Ambassador Dampezzi is the most hot-tempered man in the country.”
Kristian Grossman swallowed. “Listen,” he said with a low voice, “I’ve been the victim of a huge scam.”
Inspector Lien laughed heartily.
“Huge scam! That’s a good one. I would rather say that it is you who is doing the scamming.”
The phone rang, and he gestured towards Grossman.
“Be my guest, pick it up. Your last act as a free man.”
Kristian Grossman picked up the phone and spoke a dejected hello. Then he pricked up his ears. There was something familiar about the jarring female voice. It was “Johanne.” But now she didn’t sound devotedly naive and prattling. Now her voice reminded him of the icy chill of the headmistress’s voice at the school he once attended — the one for difficult children.
“Kristian Grossman. You have now made the acquaintance of ‘the women’s league.’ We are an organization with thousands of members all over the country dedicated to protecting our members from types like you. The money you have lured from seven gullible women over the past four years will now be returned to them. You will probably spend a long time behind bars. But once you get out, we will be ready for you. You won’t get anywhere, Grossman. You will have to find an honest occupation, live an honest life. Good luck!”
A click sounded as the phone was hung up. Kristian Grossman stood gasping, like a fish on land.
“Well,” said Inspector Lien, “are you not feeling well? Your eyes are glazed over. Was that the devil himself you were speaking to? Anyway, none of my business. We have to go. The bars await you.”
Copyright © 1975 by Richard Macker; translation ©2010 by Runar Fergus
A Study in Scarlatti
by Donald A. Yates
Holmes fandom began for Donald Yates in 1944, when his mother gave him a copy of The Complete Sherlock Holmes; in 1960, he revived the Sherlockian society at Michigan State; then, in 1972, he was invested in the Baker Street Irregulars, the world’s largest Sherlockian organization (which EQMM honors with each February issue). Here’s a fanciful recreation of a BSI get-together. It’s dedicated to Rodolfo Jorge Walsh.
The tables were being cleared after the traditional goose dinner had been dispatched by the two dozen Sherlock Holmes devotees gathered at a St. Helena restaurant on the second morning after Christmas. This was the date of the events of “The Blue Carbuncle,” and the Napa Valley group of Baker Street fans commemorated that Holmes tale of a lost hat and a lost goose with a midday meal each December 27th.
The group’s leader, Fred Cambridge, a retired professor of English, rose to call the meeting to order.
“I am pleased to have the honor of introducing our speaker on this special occasion,” he began. “He’s our Chief of Police, Ollie Branson. Chief Branson has some thirty years’ experience in investigating crime and will no doubt have countless insights to offer us. When I first asked him if he would speak today, I noticed a certain sparkle in his eyes.” Cambridge looked down at Branson, seated next to him. “I’m not sure why he was so accommodating, but I suspect that he may not be entirely unaware of the exploits of our admired Sherlock Holmes.”
Branson smiled and nodded. “I have a very well-read copy of The Complete Sherlock Holmes at home,” he said. “I know the stories well.”
“Well, then, you’re among friends,” Cambridge replied. “The floor is yours.”
Branson stood up and moved around in back of his chair. He was tall and lean, with a tonsure-like ring of white hair circling his head and a closely trimmed white beard.
“Thank you, Fred. If I could ask everyone’s patience for a short time, I’d like to tell you about a certain Napa Valley crime and see what you can make of the facts.”
The diners seated at the long table nodded approvingly, eager to accept the challenge.
“This case concerns a man named Frank Scarlatti. He was a New Yorker who came to Napa Valley to negotiate the purchase of the Chateau Rachel winery from its owner, Dennis Tucker. Tucker, who had lived and worked for many years in the valley, had suffered a series of terrible financial setbacks — bad investments, losses caused by the weather — and saw no solution to his problems short of selling the winery that he had founded.
“Tucker and Scarlatti had met several years earlier at a graduation ceremony at Yale University, where both had sons receiving undergraduate degrees. Tragedy befell Tucker soon afterwards when the graduate careers of his two sons were cut short by a very serious hit-and-run car accident in which the driver was never identified. In the accident, Dave Tucker lost the use of both legs and his brother Larry was blinded.