THE CASE OF THE MISSING CASE.

(Continuing the narrative which began here.)

Chapter 12: In Which I Learn the Truth.

WE DIDN’T TAKE the money, O’Really and I. We thought about it for a while—I don’t want you to think we didn’t. But we just couldn’t see a way to make it work. O’Really was a suspected embezzler; I was a suspected murderer. Both supposed crimes were connected with the cases of cash we had found in the Harding apartment.

In fact, I couldn’t even take one of the cases back to the Countess. We needed to call the police to see the apartment for themselves, or O’Really would live under his little cloud forever. With the twelve cases there—no need to mention the thirteenth lump of money deposited in the Steamfitters and Phrenologists Federal Savings Bank—the whole question of O’Really’s guilt was answered in the negative. With one missing, he was just as suspicious as before.

O’Really suggested buying a small South American country and repudiating all its extradition treaties, but in the end we agreed that even a run-down South American country with a lot of mileage on it would probably cost more than $425,553,815.76. Everything is so expensive these days.

So the police were really impressed with our integrity, if that’s what you call cowardice, when we called them to the Harding apartment and showed them the twelve cases all lined up and still filled with cash. They spent some time counting the cash and drooling on it, and then some time talking into radios and filling out forms. Then they were gone, and so was the money.

O’Really went back to his car, poor but vindicated. I walked for a while, collecting my thoughts. Once I had them collected and bound in morocco, I caught a streetcar on Warrington Avenue.

Obviously, my collected thoughts told me, the next thing to do was to see the Countess. That was obvious enough, but it wasn’t so obvious how I was going to find her. She had always found me before. Now I’d have to do some detective work to find her so I could tell her the results of my detective work. And even when I found her, I’d have to tell her that I didn’t exactly have her case in hand—news that would probably earn me a faceful of sprouts. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this job.

I finally got the Countess’ address from her entry in the Wikipedia, which told me that she lived in a penthouse at the top of Bellefield Hall. I have no idea what detectives did before the Wikipedia.

Bellefield Hall was about forty-five minutes away by streetcar and bus, so I had plenty of time to think of what I was going to say to the Countess. Not that it did any good. I couldn’t think of any way to begin. My conclusion was simple enough: there were thirteen identical sums of money, one of which was bound to be hers, and I didn’t exactly have any of them in my hands at the moment. It was just a question of how to lead up to that. I thought of starting out lightheartedly, maybe with a few knock-knock jokes. Or maybe not.

And there was the matter of the thirteenth case—if there was a thirteenth case. Harding had deposited $35,462,817.98 in the Steamfitters and Phrenologists Federal Savings Bank. It had to be Harding: who else would be using the name Higgins and depositing exactly $35,462,817.98? So there was some chance—let’s call it one in thirteen—that the Countess’ money was in the bank rather than with the police. I didn’t know whether that was better or worse. Either way it would be hard.

The more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t decide whether I’d succeeded or failed in this case. I knew what had happened to the money. Success! Well, I wasn’t really sure which of two places the money was in. Failure! But either way I knew that the money was in one of two places. Success! But I hadn’t actually retrieved the missing case. Failure! But I knew who had taken it. Success! But I was likely to get sprouts in my face again. Failure!

By the time I had thought through all the possibilities (and there were a lot more, but why should you suffer as much as I did?), my bus was pulling up in front of Bellefield Hall.

This was a huge Art Deco hotel built of an odd combination of brick and deep red sandstone. It was definitely a swankier place than I was used to. I’d seen the outside, but I’d never been inside before—and for a very good reason. There was a doorman standing in front who looked like a four-star general with all the tin plating and tassels on his deep red uniform. You couldn’t go past the doorman: he was right in front of the door, so you had to ask him to open it or fight him for it. I had never got up the courage to do either. Now I had to get in there to see the Countess, so I decided to ask, since the doorman was about six and a half feet tall and a good bit weightier than I am. I walked right up to te doorman, stared him straight in the lapels, gave him my name, and told him I had an appointment with the Countess Tatiana von Sturzhelm y Sombrero.

Well, you should have seen what that did to his face. He looked like a man who had just discovered pixies in the bottom of his underwear drawer. “The Countess?” he sputtered. “But she never sees anybody!”

“She’ll see me,” I told him with a certainty I didn’t quite feel.

He stared down at me intently, as though he could read the answers to all his questions about the universe in my face if he could just make out the writing. He got purpler and purpler, until I thought his face was just going to explode. Then finally he pushed a button on some square thing hanging from his belt, and almost immediately an assistant doorman appeared at his side.

“This gentleman says he has an appointment with the Countess,” the doorman told the assistant.

“The Countess?” The assistant was obviously just as surprised. Then the assistant pushed a button on the square thing on his belt, and a deputy assistant underdoorman whooshed up.

“This gentleman says he has an appointment with the Countess,” the assistant said.

“The Countess?” the deputy assistant underdoorman sputtered, and he pushed a button on the square thing on his belt. Immediately a bellboy in a splendid burgundy uniform appeared in the doorway.

“This gentleman says he has an appointment with the Countess,” the deputy assistant underdoorman said.

The bellboy didn’t react at all. He simply said “This way, sir,” and led me through the door into the lobby.

Everything in the lobby was dark red marble and polished chrome sunbursts, sinuous curves and symmetry. But it was hard to make out any deeper level of detail than that, because the lobby was filled with herds of bellboys, all in the same burgundy uniform, and all carrying little silver trays and frantically trying to page somebody. There were certainly more bellboys than there were patrons, and it was impossible to hear any of the pages in the cacophony. So, as far as I could tell, the bellboys just kept circulating forever, weaving in and out of the crowd of identical bellboys and shouting incomprehensible pages into the echoing marble of the lobby.

I tried to follow the bellboy who was leading me, but it was hopeless. Soon I realized I’d lost him and was following another bellboy, and then when I thought I’d found the first again it turned out to be another one altogether. After five or six more bellboys, I ended up in the bar somehow, where I was very surprised to see my old friend Ludmilla behind the counter.

“What are you doing here?” I asked her.

“Polishing a glass,” she said, polishing a glass. “What are you doing here?”

I sat down on one of the stools. “I’m looking for the Countess Tatiana,” I answered, hoping she might be able to steer me in the right direction.

“There’s no such person,” Ludmilla said.

“Well, of course there is,” I replied. “I still have the sprouts to prove it.”

“There’s no such person,” Ludmilla repeated.

I looked around helplessly, and for the first time recognized that the man to my right at the bar was someone I knew. I couldn’t place him at first, but then I recognized him: Midas Geldman, the reclusive zillionaire. I don’t know why, but for some reason I wasn’t surprised to see him there.

“But you knew the Countess,” I said to him. “You know she’s a real person.”

“Yes,” Mr. Geldman agreed. “But she is not quite what she seems to be.”

“What does that mean?” I demanded impatiently.

“I don’t really know,” he replied. “I heard it somewhere, and I thought I’d pass it along to you.”

I threw up my hands in disgust and despair and looked the other way.

“Well, don’t look at me, my dear sir,” said Seamus O’Really, sitting on the stool to my left. “To me, this Countess is only a name in a newspaper clipping.”

I’d had enough of this. I stood up and stomped back toward the lobby.

“You wouldn’t be like this if you ate more protein!” I heard Ludmilla shouting after me. But I was too tired and confused to think up a witty rejoinder.

Wading into the sea of bellboys, I spied a wall of elevator doors on the opposite side of the lobby. Fine, I thought: if no one would take me to the Countess, I’d go myself. How hard can it be to find a penthouse? Certainly not as hard as swimming through the shouting bellboys. Several times I thought I’d lost my way, and one I was afraid I was going under for the last time. But eventually I made it to the other side and lunged for an open elevator. I was just a little too slow: it filled up with bellboys and slammed shut just before I got to the door.

No matter: another would be here soon. As soon as I heard the ding and saw the light, I raced for the elevator at the end of the row. But it had filled up with bellboys and departed before I got there. Then the elevator next to me dinged and lit up. I took one step toward it, but in that time it had opened and filled up with bellboys so tightly packed that there was simply no room at all in it. The same thing happened three more times.

I was about to give up and take the stairs when the elevator next to me opened. It was empty, and no bellboys were running for it. I stepped in a bit suspiciously, but the bellboys were completely ignoring it. So I turned to the operator and told him I wanted the penthouse.

“Yes, sir,” he replied in a flat monotone.

The doors closed, and the elevator lurched upward.

At the next floor, the doors opened again.

“Mezzanine,” the operator chanted in his invariable monotone. “Guest services, tapas bar, post office.”

No one got on, and I didn’t get off.

At the next floor, we stopped again.

“Second floor,” the operator chanted. “Grand ballroom, conference rooms, coffee shop, trampolines.”

No one got on, and I didn’t get off.

At the next floor, we stopped again.

“Third floor. Rooms three-oh-one to three-twenty-eight.”

No one got on.

“Is it positively necessary to stop at every floor?” I asked, a bit testily.

“This is a local,” the operator replied with unvarying expression. “Express elevators go straight. Locals stop at every floor.”

“Is it likely that I could get an express from this floor?”

“Express elevators fill up fast,” the operator chanted as the doors closed. “Only forty-six more floors to go.”

So we stopped at every floor, and I began to notice a strange progression. Dark red was the dominant color on the lower floors, but as we went higher it dominated more and more. By the thirtieth floor, it was getting hard to distinguish details in the decorations, which were becoming more and more uniformly burgundy. Then even the light in the elevator began to shift subtly toward the red spectrum. I looked up and saw dark red gels closing over the ceiling lights one by one.

I was beginning to feel feverish. This was far worse than the Harding apartment. This was an inescapable maelstrom of burgundy. And still the elevator went up one floor at a time, stopping at every floor, and each floor more burgundy than the last. My brain was whirling. I was drowning in a deluge of burgundy. I was spiraling into a burgundy hole, the collapsed remnant of a red giant. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight—

I burst out of the elevator, my mind spinning. “There was never any Harding at all!” I shouted. “Burgundy limousines! Burgundy hotels! It was you all the time, you crazy burgundy-loving, sprout-throwing—um…”

I stopped. The penthouse wasn’t burgundy at all. It was tastefully furnished in inlaid wood, a bit on the moderne side but not too flashy. Everything about it was in the very best taste, from the oriental rugs to the Epidendrum orchids on the balcony, which I could see through a pair of open French doors.

“Well done,” said a familiar voice beside me.

I turned and saw Mr. Higgins, old Doc Boli’s secretary.

“Thank you,” I said. I sat down in an armchair and tried to stop my head from spinning around on my neck. “Um, what did I do well?”

“You have done very well in following these mysteries to their conclusion,” Mr. Higgins said. “You have not deduced everything, but that was not required of you. The Countess and I were more interested in how you approached the problems than in whether you solved them completely.”

I looked up, and for the first time I noticed the Countess, still wearing her veil, sitting in a huge wicker chair on the opposite side of the room.

“So what is she?” I demanded, trying to keep a civil tongue in my head. “Some sort of international criminal mastermind?”

Mr. Higgins came close to smiling. “Hardly, sir. But you were given certain clues, if I may use the term, which you might have applied to the problem.”

“Clues?” I was beyond baffled by now.

“Mr. Midas Geldman, for example, was instructed to tell you that the Countess was not quite what she seemed to be. Miss Ludmilla McArdle was instructed to tell you that there was no such person as the Countess. Both statements are, in the strictest sense, true.”

“But I see the Countess over there,” I protested. “Have I been having hallucinations? Did I just imagine the sprouts in my hair?”

“Certainly not, sir,” Mr. Higgins answered. “You have, however, been slightly deceived. Since you have not yet discovered it for yourself, I see no harm in revealing to you that the Countess Tatiana von Klapphut y Sombrero is in fact Dr. Henricus Albertus Boli.”

Here the Countess removed her veil, and sure enough she was a he.

“Didn’t Dr. Boli have a beard?” I asked.

“Dr. Boli’s beard is removable when the occasion warrants,” Mr. Higgins explained. “It is a trick, if I may call it that, which Dr. Boli learned from the late King William I of Prussia.”

I slumped back in my chair. “Well, I admit I sort of missed that,” I said. “But I was right that there was no Harding, wasn’t I?”

“Perfectly correct,” Mr. Higgins replied.

“And that body we saw in the Hyundai?”

“Merely a well-known actor employed for the occasion. He is particularly celebrated for his roles as corpses, and is currently starring in a regendered theatrical adaptation of Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying.”

“So this was all some weird and elaborate test?”

“Elaborate, yes,” Mr. Higgins said, “but perfectly justified under the circumstances. Dr. Boli devised a series of events and puzzles to test your disposition, your adaptability, your intelligence, and most of all your integrity.”

“And why did he do that?” I was getting a bit annoyed. Actually, when I thought about all I’d been through, I was getting a lot annoyed.

“The time of my service to Dr. Boli is coming to an end. In a year, I shall be retiring to my estates in the Pays d’Oc, and at that time Dr. Boli will require a new secretary. Because of your resourcefulness, your intelligence, and your entire lack of other prospects of success for the future, Dr. Boli has chosen to offer that position to you.”

“Me? A private secretary?” I was about to say something along the lines of “Ha,” but Mr. Higgins continued.

“I should mention that the starting salary for this position is something in the lower eight figures.”

The “Ha” I’d been preparing withered on the vine, fell off, and fluttered away in the gentle breeze from the balcony. Instead, some appalling instinct for honesty and fairness led me to protest, “But I didn’t figure everything out. I never even figured out where the thirteenth case came from.”

“There was no thirteenth case,” Mr Higgins replied.

“But Harding—I mean the Countess—I mean—well, you know what I mean—deposited $35,462,817.98 in the Steamfitters and Phrenologists Federal Savings Bank, and we found twelve cases of cash in his apartment. That makes thirteen cases altogether, doesn’t it? Or am I going crazy?”

“Your sanity is not the subject of discussion,” Mr. Higgins said calmly. “Dr. Boli, in his persona of the Countess, in her persona of Mr. Harding, did not make that deposit.”

“But the name was Higgins, and—wait a minute…”

“Yes,” Mr. Higgins said. “I made that deposit. It was the retirement bonus given to me by Dr. Boli. That it was exactly the same amount as the one you were hired to find was an added distraction for you, a ‘red herring’ as it were, as well as an example of what I may call Dr. Boli’s sly sense of humor.”

Well, one thing was obvious. I was a pretty hopeless detective. Maybe I’d make a better secretary—especially at an eight-figure salary.

“So when do I start?” I asked.

“Then I take it that you accept the position?”

“Well, the offer is very attractive.”

“In that case, you may start immediately. I shall spend the next year training you. By the end of that time, you should be familiar with most of Dr. Boli’s whims and preferences, thus relieving Dr. Boli of the necessity of speaking except on extraordinary occasions. You have already demonstrated a remarkable equilibrium in dealing with unusual behaviors, so nothing Dr. Boli does should dismay you inordinately.”

“That’s good,” I said. It sounded like quite a roller coaster ahead. “So Dr. Boli was willing to risk all that cash just to audition a new secretary. What happens to it now? Do the police still have it?”

“No, sir. The police were also hired actors. The cases, with the cash undisturbed, have been returned to Dr. Boli.”

“I see,” I said. I felt a momentary pang of regret when I thought of all that cash going out of circulation again.

“If you like,” Mr. Higgins continued, “you may keep the cases and the cash they contain as souvenirs.”

I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up several hours later in a very comfortable bed. Mr. Higgins tells me I passed out, but Dr. Boli’s private physicians say it’s not likely to happen again.

 

THE CASE OF THE MISSING CASE.

(Continuing the narrative which began here.)

Chapter 11: In Which I Count a Lot of Cash.

 

WE FORTIFIED OURSELVES with one each of O’Really’s exceptionally strong peppermints. Then I took another one, because I didn’t feel quite fortified enough yet. After that, I was ready to see what was in those cases I’d been sitting on.

It was hard to make out any detail in the overwhelming burgundiness of the place, but by feeling around the top of the first case I finally figured out that it opened with a zipper. Finding the zipper-puller thing was even more of a challenge, but at last I found it and unzipped the case, almost holding my breath.

“What’s in it?” O’Really asked with as much patience as he could muster.

“Money,” I answered. I pulled out a bundle of $10,000 bills, helpfully marked “$1,000,000 (100 × $10,000).”

“How much?” O’Really asked again, a little less patiently this time. He was right behind me, looking over my shoulder and breathing noisily.

I shuffled around in the bag, carefully arranging the bundles into stacks of five. “There are thirty-five of these,” I told him, waving the bundle of $10,000 bills, “along with a $400,000 bill, two $30,000 bills, two $1,000 bills, eight $100 bills, one $17 bill, four dimes, eleven nickels, and three pennies.”

“$35,462,817.98!” O’Really exclaimed. “What’s in the next one?”

Well, the next one opened with a snap instead of a zipper, but you’ve probably guessed that it contained $35,462,817.98 too. So did the one after that, which was closed with a brass clasp, and the one after that, which was tied shut with a piece of string.

It took a while, but we opened all twelve cases and counted the money inside. In each case we found $35,462,817.98. It appeared that our mystery was solved.

“’Twould appear that we have both found what we were looking for,” O’Really said. “You have your client’s money, and I have the proof that I was blameless.”

“It looks that way,” I agreed.

“And after those two things—our two goals, you might say, the twin ends of our separate endeavors—have been accounted for, there remain ten cases.”

The fact had not escaped me. “Ten cases,” I repeated.

“Ten cases,” O’Really continued, “containing a total of $354,628,179.80.”

“That’s what I come up with, too.”

“To put it in perspective,” O’Really said, “if you divided the amount in half, and (hypothetically, let us say, for the purposes of illustration) each half went to one of two different people, then each (hypothetical) person would have $177,314,089.90.”

“Hypothetically, that’s true.”

“Which is still a large amount of money.”

“It is,” I agreed.

“Not enough, of course, to place a man in the foremost rank of society, but with a certain amount of wisdom and judicious frugality one could contrive to live very comfortably on $177,314,089.90.”

“Comfortably enough.”

We sat on the floor in silence for a while, surrounded by $425,553,815.76 in cash. I imagined what, hypothetically, a man might do with $177,314,089.90. Hypothetically, for example, I might buy Lawrenceville. I’d always wanted to buy Lawrenceville. I could tell that O’Really was thinking broadly similar thoughts. I hoped he didn’t want to buy Lawrenceville, too. Higher demand would drive the price out of my range.

“The first thing to do,” O’Really said at last, “is to call the police. ’Tis not quite apparent to me how we should explain our being here without mentioning the words ‘breaking and entering,’ but without the police to verify our discovery no one will ever know that I was innocent.”

“I suppose I should call the Countess, too,” I added.

“Certainly. You will call the Countess, and I shall call the police. Each of us will report the finding of the missing $35,462,817.98.” He paused. “Which still leaves us with the question of the remaining $354,628,179.80.”

“It does. And $354,628,179.80, as you said, is a lot of money. I suppose everyone is out looking for it.”

“Ah, well, there’s the peculiar thing,” O’Really said. “With the exception of my former employer and the Countess Tatiana, every one of Mr. Harding’s victims has died since the crimes were committed. All of natural causes: nothing suspicious. They all died childless, with no direct heirs. I’ve been following the story, you see. You ought to have read more of my clippings.”

I thought about that information for a while. Then suddenly something occurred to me.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You said Harding had stolen twelve times.”

“Yes, exactly twelve. He was, as you may recall, obsessed with the idea of accumulating $425,553,815.76.”

“And we’ve found $425,553,815.76 in twelve different cases.”

“Exactly,” O’Really agreed. “Mystery solved; case closed.”

“But Harding put $35,462,817.98 in the bank just the other day.”

O’Really thought about that for a moment. “But that must mean he had—”

“$461,016,633.74,” I said, finishing his sentence for him.

“Impossible,” O’Really declared. “I have all the clippings. There were twelve robberies.”

“It doesn’t add up,” I agreed. “I thought we had it all figured out, but it doesn’t add up.”

 

Proceed to Chapter 12.

 

THE CASE OF THE MISSING CASE.

(Continuing the narrative which began here.)

Chapter 10: In Which I Visit the Apartment of Mr. Harding and See a Great Deal of the Color Burgundy.

 

IT TOOK US a good two hours—no, let me begin again. It took us at least two hours, which were not at all good, to reach Breckenridge Avenue, which is on the back side of Mount Washington. By that time it was dark outside. Number 400 turned out to be a four-storey apartment block in what I call the Trickle-Down International Style, which is to say that the builder who put it up in the 1950s had absorbed just enough of the International Style to know that he was no longer required to make it look attractive. It was just a brick box with the corner windows typical of the style. It did, however, have one distinction: even in the sodium-vapor streetlights, I could see that the bricks had been painted dark red. That would have appealed to Mr. Harding.

“And now,” O’Really said as we finally drifted to a stop beside the curb, “we are presented with a problem.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The problem of getting in. ’Tis a simple matter to slip into the Harding apartment once we’re in the building, but getting in through the front door may be a bit harder. What I call a two-peppermint problem.” He fumbled for his peppermint tin.

“Someone will buzz us in,” I told him.

“Really?” He was so genuinely surprised by my confidence that he stopped his fumbling for a moment. “Do you know someone here?”

“No, but someone will buzz us in.” I stepped out of the little car, grateful for the chance to stretch my legs after the long journey. I walked briskly and confidently to the front door of the building, with O’Really following me a good bit less confidently, and still fumbling for his peppermints.

Inside the first pair of glass doors was a vestibule with two columns of buttons on the left wall. They were all labeled with numbers and names; I noticed that Harding was listed in Room 305. Then I quickly pushed all the buttons in sequence.

A chorus of voices began to pour out of the loudspeaker. I waited until I had heard quite a few; then I bellowed “Pizza!” into the machine. A number of objections came back: “I didn’t order a pizza,” “You must have the wrong apartment,” and so on. But meanwhile the buzzer sounded and I opened the door.

“At this time of the evening,” I told O’Really as we stepped inside, “somebody’s always ordered pizza.”

“Extraordinary,” O’Really said with a show of admiration. “You’re really more like a private detective than a private secretary.”

“You learn different things from different employers,” I answered, keeping it vague enough that I didn’t have to remember a story.

“I suppose so,” O’Really said. “Mr. Harding’s apartment is number 305, I believe. Would you care for a peppermint?”

I politely declined.

There was no elevator, so we went up the steps. The place was quiet. On the second floor, we passed a young man in the hall who was fidgeting with a $20 bill, but we paid no attention to him, and he paid no attention to two men who were obviously not carrying a pizza.

There were six apartments on each floor; Harding’s was one of the corner apartments, with its door at the end of the hall.

“Leave this to me, good sir,” O’Really said; and with a quick flourish of a credit card, he had the door unlocked. “As you say, you learn different things from different employers.”

As soon as we opened the door, a huge crashing wave of burgundy smashed into my eyeballs and almost knocked me off my feet. I could hardly push my way through all the burgundy into the apartment. It was like a burgundy blizzard, the kind of blizzard that covers everything in such a monstrous sameness that you lose track of which way is up.

Eventually, as my eyes began to adjust, I started to distinguish slightly different shades of burgundy, and the different shades resolved themselves into different shapes, and the different shapes resolved themselves into walls and floors and pieces of furniture. I sat down on a burgundy sofa or coffee table or something to get my bearings for a bit.

“’Twould appear,” O’Really remarked, “that Mr. Harding’s preference for burgundy was more a religion than a simple aesthetic predilection.”

“I guess,” I responded. I picked up a glossy magazine beside me, but since the words were printed in burgundy ink on glossy burgundy paper, there was no point in trying to read it.

“So far,” said O’Really, who apparently was having less trouble adjusting to the burgundy storm than I was, “I’ve not succeeded in finding a single object in any color other than burgundy. I believe this over here is the kitchen.”

I looked toward his voice. It was an extraordinary sight: the top half of a man, from just above his waist on up, floating in a burgundy ocean. As I adjusted more to the shades of burgundy around me, I began to suspect that what I saw was O’Really standing behind some sort of peninsula or other topographic formation of the kitchen.

“A burgundy skillet,” he continued, “sitting on a burgundy stove. A burgundy kettle. A burgundy coffee pot. A burgundy corkscrew. A burgundy wine glass. A bottle of Domaine des Piles Rechargeables burgundy wine, with the label rendered entirely in shades of burgundy.”

“Technically,” I objected weakly, “Domaine des Piles Rechargeables is a Cotes du—”

“A burgundy dishwasher,” he went on. “A burgundy sink with a burgundy faucet. And over there, a row of burgundy suitcases.”

“Suitcases?” My interest was suddenly piqued.

“You’re sitting on them,” O’Really said.

I leaped up. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the light from the burgundy lamp, I could see that what I had first taken to be a sofa or coffee table was in fact a row of burgundy suitcases sitting side by side, all about the same size, though each was slightly different in style from the others.

I counted them carefully. “How many cases would you say are in this row?” I asked O’Really.

He counted silently. “Twelve,” he answered after what was evidently a careful count.

“And how many cases full of cash did you say had gone missing from Mr. Harding’s employers?”

“Twelve,” O’Really answered.

“What do you think we should do?”

“I think,” O’Really said carefully, “that we ought to fortify ourselves with a peppermint.”

This time, under the circumstances, I agreed.

 

Proceed to Chapter 11.

 

THE CASE OF THE MISSING CASE.

(Continuing the narrative which began here.)

Chapter 9: In Which Seamus O’Really Reveals Some Surprising Facts About Mr. Harding.

 

THAT ADDRESS WAS all I had to hear. I was ready to go just about anywhere with Seamus O’Really, or any other random stranger, if there was any chance of finding more about this Harding character—like maybe his ATM card. It also entered into my calculations that it would take me a bus, a subway, and an incline to get to No. 400 Breckenridge Avenue, whereas O’Really had his own car.

O’Really’s car was a cheap Korean hatchback not much different from the one we’d found Harding in. It was filled with maps, notebooks, and stray newspaper clippings. I had to pick up one of the clippings to sit on the passenger seat, and the headline caught my attention:

LOCAL WIDOW REPORTS THEFT OF $35,462,817.98

At first I was surprised to see that the Countess had reported the theft. I thought she had hired me to spare herself the indignity of becoming front-page news.

But the details in the story didn’t add up. As I scanned down the paragraphs, it became more and more clear that the victim of this theft was a completely different woman, and that the theft had happened (according to the scribbled date on the clipping) more than a year ago. But how many women lose exactly $35,462,817.98?

“I see one of my clippings has caught your attention,” O’Really remarked as he fumbled with his seatbelt. “’Tis a subject to which I’ve been devoting some attention, you might say. By the way, would you care for a peppermint?”

“No, thank you,” I replied, taking pity on his fumbling.

He continued to fumble. “I’ll have one, if you don’t mind. Peppermint makes the world sunnier. Peppermint is my great joy in life, and my only weakness. “’Twas peppermint that cost me my position in the service of Mr. Von Schmaltz, and peppermint that consoled me for the loss.” By now he had managed to extract a peppermint from the tin and was busily fumbling it back into his pocket.

“You were fired for eating peppermint?”

“Well, that and the fact that I was accused of stealing $35,462,817.98 from his cash on hand. More the latter than the former, I suppose. Still, the subject of the peppermint did come up. He definitely did mention the awful stench of peppermint everywhere I went—I believe that was how he put it. Yes. ‘Awful stench of peppermint.’ His exact words. But it was really more about the money.”

I glanced down at the clipping in my hand, but the name of the victim was definitely not Von Schmaltz. This was very odd. Could there have been three thefts of $35,462,817.98?

“And did you steal the money?” I asked tactfully.

O’Really had fumbled the tin back into his pocket and now resumed fumbling with the seatbelt with both hands. “No, I did not. If I had, I should not be driving myself around in this serviceable but poorly equipped automobile, and I should not be fetching my own peppermints. My theory was that the money had been missing for some time before the loss was discovered. I had been in the employ of Mr. Von Schmaltz for only a short time—five months and a week, to be fairly precise about it. Before that, her secretary had been a man named Harding.” He snapped his seatbelt shut with a triumphant flourish. “There we are. ’Tis just a matter of showing them you take the matter seriously.”

“Do you mean the same Harding who—”

“I believe I do mean the same Harding, yes,” he said as he started the car. “You might care to have a look into some of my notebooks as we go. But permit me to give you a summary of what I believe I have discovered over the course of my research. When I began to suspect that it was Mr. Harding who had taken the $35,462,817.98, I commenced some inquiries into his employment history. I compared his curriculum vitae with the archives of the Dispatch and the Sun-Telly, and I noticed an interesting pattern.”

O’Really was now driving carefully along Lysle Boulevard at about twenty miles per hour. Since he wasn’t saying anything, I assumed he was waiting for me to react. I waited for a while, but I finally did ask.

“And what was the pattern?”

“Aha!” During the long silence, we had inched our way across the Mansfield Bridge and were now beginning the slow climb up the hill on the other side. “’Tis a fascinating question you’re asking. What I found was that Mr. Harding had a history of short employments; that much I was able to determine without much effort. When I looked into the archives of the papers, I discovered this interesting correlation: some time after Mr. Harding left, each one of his employers reported the loss or theft of $35,462,817.98 in cash. Altogether, thirteen different people have been known to employ Mr. Harding, and twelve of them have reported thefts of exactly the same amount.”

“That’s a very strange crime,” I said. We were still crawling up the hill, now at a rate of about fifteen miles per hour, and I had begun to wonder whether I wouldn’t get there faster if I walked. “Why would somebody bother to steal precisely the same amount from every victim, rather than just taking all he could get his hands on?”

“Yes, I did wonder that, too,” O’Really answered. “And then I recalled a conversation I once had in the Club with Mr. Harding—by which of course I mean Mr. Higgins. Unlike ourselves, you see, Mr. Higgins—by which of course I mean Mr. Harding—was not a true amanuensis by calling. He was dissatisfied with such employment and considered it beneath him. He told me once that he had calculated the exact amount it would take to permit him to live the life he considered suitable, and the figure had come to $425,553,815.80. And then I saw the connection.”

He was silent again, waiting for me to ask the question. It annoyed me. I bore it for quite a while, counting the cars, trucks, tricycles, and strollers as they whizzed past us. Finally I had to ask:

“And what was the connection?”

“I believe that Mr. Harding decided to fulfill his life’s ambition by accumulating $425,553,815.80. But the theft of such a large amount of money would be sure to attract unwanted attention. I believe, therefore, that Mr. Harding simplified the matter by dividing his scheme for the acquisition of the money into twelve steps, thus dividing the money to be acquired into twelve equal parts. These smaller and more manageable sums could disappear without attracting too much notice.”

“But what happened to all that money? I mean, that’s getting up around half a billion. That kind of money usually makes a lot of noise. Where did it all go?”

By now we had nearly reached the crest of the hill, and I was hoping that we might accelerate a little bit on the other side.

“As for that,” O’Really said as we went over the top, “I honestly can’t say. Perhaps we shall know more when we get to No. 400 Breckenridge Avenue.”

We began hurtling down the other side of the hill at the breakneck speed of twenty-three.

“If that ever happens,” I muttered under my breath.

Suddenly O’Really slammed on the brakes and pulled over onto the shoulder. I was afraid he had heard my mumbling and been offended, but then I saw that he was fumbling in his pocket.

“’Tis time for another peppermint,” he announced. “Would you like one, by the way?”

 

Proceed to Chapter 10.

 

THE CASE OF THE MISSING CASE.

(Continuing the narrative which began here.)

Chapter 8: In Which I Do Not Open an Account at the Steamfitters & Phrenologists Federal Savings Bank, Lysle Boulevard Branch.

 

THE STEAMFITTERS & Phrenologists Federal Savings Bank has two offices in the Tube City. The main office, on Fifth at Walnut, has hardly changed since it was built in 1887; it’s famous locally for the stone griffins that guard the entrance. The branch office, a block away on Lysle Boulevard, was built in 1965. That was where Midas Geldman had told me $35,462,817.98 had been deposited three days before, so that was where I headed.

The building was perfectly round, with narrow aluminum vertical supports holding up plate-glass windows all around, so that the whole thing looked almost exactly like a giant snare drum.

Inside, I don’t think the place had changed at all since it was built. As I walked in, the first thing that caught my eye was a freestanding frame with a sign advertising a free transistor radio when you opened a new deposit account with $50 or more. Suspended on wires from the metal beam at the top of the far window was a portrait of President Kennedy, draped in black crepe; below it was a smaller portrait of President Johnson, with the trailing ends of the crepe forming an X over his face. Along the front of the counter, below the tellers’ windows, were large letters spelling out the slogan “A Penny Saved Is $0.010125 Earned.” The whole building was filled with the sound of electric adding machines stamping numbers on endless rolls of paper.

I had decided to wear the suit I’d got at Mr. Brummel’s shop, so I was actually better dressed than most of the people who worked in the bank. It had got me some looks on the bus, but now I was sure it had been worth it. I made my way with big, important steps straight to a vice-president’s office and announced myself with all the ease and confidence I could muster.

“Excuse me—I’m interested in opening an account.”

The suit was obviously doing its work. At once the vice president leaped out of his chair and came around to my side of his desk.

“Certainly, sir. Opening accounts is one of the things we do best here at S & P. Did you notice our transistor-radio offer?”

“I shall not be requiring a transistor radio,” I said with what I hoped would be the proper combination of authority and disdain.

“Certainly not, sir,” the vice-president agreed, shifting gears instantly with Fluid Drive. “A mere token, designed to entice the custom of the smaller depositors, and certainly not of concern to a gentleman of means such as yourself. If I may inquire, sir, what sort of account were you thinking of opening?”

“Oh, a checking account, I think,” I answered, trying my best to sound like the sort of man who had far too much money to care much about money.

“Very good, sir.”

“And not one of those cut-rate, lower-class checking accounts,” I added quickly. “I shall require a checking account with—” (by this point in the sentence I had realized that I knew nothing about the varieties of checking accounts, and I struggled to complete the sentence in a suitably impressive way) “—with—um—with all the trimmings.” (Mission accomplished.)

“Of course, sir. Certainly, sir. We have a number of different account products that vary according to the size of the deposit and the minimum balance. About how much were you interested in depositing?”

“Roughly $35,462,817.98, in round numbers.”

“My goodness! What an extraordinary coincidence!” the vice-president remarked.

“Really? How so? Pray tell.”

“Well, you’re the second gentleman this week to deposit exactly that sum. What are the odds? It’s really quite an amusing coincidence.”

“Is that so?” I’m sure it must have been one of my friends. We multimillionaires all know each other, you know. I’ll bet it was my old friend Harding.”

“A miss there, sir, I’m afraid. His name was Higgins, not Harding.”

“Oh, of course—he uses that name when… Well, at any rate, was this Mr. Higgins of Pride Street?”

“No, sir, this Mr. Higgins lives at No. 400 Breckenridge. I remember the address very well, as I always do when a large sum is deposited.”

“Oh, I see, that Mr. Higgins. Well, if he comes by to make a withdrawal, you might tell him that the Countess is looking for him. He should know what that means. And now I think I’ll be going.”

He suddenly went all sputtery. “But the account?—the thirty-five million?”

“My dear sir,” I replied in a cold and condescending tone, “you’ve just revealed the most intimate personal information about one of your largest depositors. I can’t imagine that my money would be safe here.”

I turned and walked briskly out, ignoring the vice-president as he sputtered after me: “But wait! Come back! The thirty-five million! Mr. Steamfitters will have my head!”

I began to walk back toward the bus stop around the corner, but I had only got about a quarter of the very short way there when I was suddenly accosted by another extraordinarily well-dressed man.

“Mr. Higgins, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully, with a cheerful slap on my shoulder. “How do you do? I saw you the other day at the club, though I’m not sure you saw me. Nevertheless, I think you ought to be accompanying me.”

“Is that a threat, Mr.—”

“Higgins in the club, of course. But if you’d prefer to be using my real name, I’ll let you take three guesses. ’Tis a grand old Irish name, it is.”

“Oh, really?” I said, though I had a feeling I was being set up.

“Astonishing! Absolutely right the first try. How ever did you guess? Seamus O’Really at your service, sir, and I should be deeply honored if you would accompany me in my car.”

“And why should I do that?”

“Well, you might do it for the charming company and sparkling conversation,” he suggested. “Or”—and here he leaned very close, so I could smell the strong odor of peppermint on his breath, and spoke in an exaggeratedly confidential undertone—“you might do it because I happen to be headed for No. 400 Breckenridge Avenue.”

 

Proceed to Chapter 9.

 

THE CASE OF THE MISSING CASE.

(Continuing the narrative which began here.)

Chapter 7: In Which I Visit Midas Geldman.

 

WE DIDN’T ACTUALLY leave town, Mr. Higgins and I. We did leave the Hagia Sophia Diner, but only after Mr. Higgins had finished his coffee. After that we parted ways: Mr. Higgins offered to drive me back home, but—late as it was—I preferred to walk rather than stuff myself back into the Bantam. So. Mr. Higgins drove off to return to the Boli mansion, and I walked homeward through the dark and silent streets of the city.

The darkness and silence made it all the more jarring when a loud horn suddenly sounded right next to my left ear. After I put the top of my head back in, I looked to my left and saw about a block’s worth of limousine. It looked a lot like the one Mr. Higgins had picked me up in that afternoon, but under the sodium-vapor streetlights I could see that it was dark red rather than black.

A window rolled down and the head of the Countess appeared behind it.

“What did Midas Geldman tell you?” she demanded.

“Who?” I asked.

“Oaf! she spat, and suddenly I was covered with sprouts again. “When you’re looking for money, you talk to Midas Geldman!”

The window rolled up, and the limousine drove on, leaving me alone on the sidewalk with sprouts in my hair.

The next morning I wasted no time. As soon as I woke up, which was about eleven, I looked up Midas Geldman and made an appointment to see him. He wasn’t hard to find: there was only one Midas Geldman, and he was filthy rich.

I had expected to find him in a mansion, or at least in a penthouse palace in Shadyside. After all, if my sources (Wikipedia) were correct, Midas Geldman was second-richest, after H. Albertus Boli. But instead I found him in a run-down two-bedroom ranch house in a run-down suburb just outside city limits to the southeast.

The house looked like all the other houses on the street from the outside; but when Mr. Geldman opened the door, I could tell it probably wasn’t much like them on the inside.

“Please come in,” Mr. Geldman wheezed. “And please do pardon my cough. Antibiotics are so expensive.”

The entry was a narrow hall with steel walls on both sides. It led past a few very secure-looking steel doors to a little room with steel walls, two white plastic chairs, and a small white plastic table. Except for the remains of a plain cheese pizza on the table, those were the only furnishings. Three of the doors that lined the walls of the room were steel like the ones in the hall; the fourth, plain wood, was open to reveal a Spartan powder room.

“Welcome to my humble home,” Mr. Geldman said, and by golly he meant the “humble” part. “Would you care for, um, a pizza crust?”

“No, thank you,” I answered.

“So what was it you wanted again? Something to do with the Countess, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. She told me you might know something about a missing case of hers.”

“Really?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “Why do you suppose she said that?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t have much of a conversation.”

“Well, that’s very odd,” he said. “I don’t think I know anything about any of the Countess’s luggage. Not since—well, anyway, a long time. Did she say what was in the case?”

“About thirty-five million in cash.”

His face lit up like a Vegas hotel. “Oh, well, now I see. Yes, I do know about money. I keep track of money. Money is what I do.”

“Does that mean you know something about the missing case?”

“If it had money in it, I know something about it. Now then, young man, can you tell me precisely how much money was in this case? I need to know the exact sum it contained.”

“$35,462,817.98,” I told him. By this time, I could rattle off the figure without thinking about it.

Mr. Geldman closed his eyes and leaned back in his plastic chair. “I am sorting,” he said quietly. “I shall not be with you for several minutes.”

After that, he was silent for twelve minutes and eighteen seconds. Since I had nothing better to do, I timed him.

At the end of that time, his eyes slowly opened. “A sum equal to that amount was deposited three days ago at the Steamfitters & Phrenologists Federal Savings Bank, Lysle Boulevard branch.”

“It’s amazing how you can do that,” I said, suitably amazed. “Who deposited it?”

“I have no idea. I keep track of money. People are of no interest to me at all.”

That was disappointing, but at least I had something to go on. And purely as a feat of memory, what I had just seen was astonishing. “How do you keep track of things like that?” I asked.

“Money,” Mr. Geldman answered, “is the only thing that has ever captured my interest. You clutter your brain with family or hobbies or infinite numbers of lesser pursuits. But for me, with the exception of a certain minimal interest in continued existence that suffices to keep me alive, the only thing that occupies my mind is money. I have had this house specifically adapted to my needs, and here my money and I can live in ease and contentment, undisturbed by external influences. And here, within certain parameters, I am happy.”

“Well,” I remarked, “you certainly do live differently from the other rich guy I just visited. Doc Boli has a mansion the size of Connecticut.”

Over the next few seconds, whole weather systems played across his face. A cold front passed over, bringing storms in its wake; then a period of changeable weather, followed at last by a cool but sunny serenity. “Dr. Boli,” he said after his demonstration of physiognomical meteorology was over, “does not enjoy his money in its pure state. He prefers to make use of it for purchases and investments, which in my opinion sullies money.”

“So do you just sit and count your money or what?”

“Oh, no. Counting it more than once would soil it, even if one’s hands were as clean as they could be made. No, it is enough for my contentment to know that it is here, with me, sorted in my various rooms according to country of origin and denomination.”

“But what happens to it all when you—you know—aren’t around anymore?”

“My will provides for my money after my decease,” he explained. “A certain number of the more recent American bills, which are much less attractive than they used to be, will be used to build the Geldman Archive of World Currency, which will be open to the public.”

“I suppose that might be fun, seeing all the different kinds of money they have in different countries.”

“Oh, no, the money will not be on display. That would be vulgar. No, I simply wish others to be able to enjoy the same experience I enjoy every day, of knowing that they are surrounded by money, money in its pure form, untainted by conversion to imaginary electronic accounts.”

“I see,” I said, trying to think of what else I could say. “Well, I’m sure that will be popular with the kids. At any rate, you’ve been a big help to me and the countess, and maybe now she’ll stop throwing sprouts at me.”

“You’re quite welcome, young man. Any time you have a question about money, I’m always delighted to help. But I do have one more word of advice. Be careful with the Countess. She is not quite what she seems to be.”

“What does that mean?” As you know, it wasn’t the first time someone had warned me about the Countess.

“I don’t really know,” he replied. “I heard it somewhere, and I thought I’d pass it along to you.”

 

Proceed to Chapter 8.

THE CASE OF THE MISSING CASE.

(Continuing the narrative which began here.)

Chapter 6: Which Returns Us to the Hagia Sophia Diner

 

“YOU NEED MORE protein than that,” Ludmilla told me as she looked over my order.

“Lots of protein in nuts,” I said, and I pointed to the baklava.

“That’s a sweet,” Ludmilla declared with authority. “Sweet cancels out protein. Why don’t you have one of our liver and kidney muffins? Or a bit of soy kibbee—lots of good protein in that.”

“I eat what I like,” I said with finality. “And I like what I eat,” I added, because it seemed to be necessary.

“Suit yourself,” Ludmilla retorted cleverly. She always had the last word.

We were sitting at a small table for two by the window. Mr. Higgins had ordered only a black coffee, but I noticed Ludmilla wasn’t lecturing him about protein. When she left us alone, Mr. Higgins returned to the subject of our previous conversation.

“After you have consumed you baklava, what course do you intend to pursue?”

“I have no idea,” I admitted. “What else do we know about this Harding character?”

“We know that his favorite color is red in the burgundy range,” Mr. Higgins reminded me. “I do hope that suggests an avenue of inquiry to you.”

“Of course it does,” I agreed. “All we have to do is find a dark red storage locker, or a dark red envelope, or a dark red suitcase, or a dark red mattress, and we’ll know where he stashed the money.”

“Or he might have sent it to the region in France which is called Burgundy,” Mr. Higgins suggested.

“Or he might have used the money to buy a collection of the best Burgundy wine,” I added. “Or he might have spray-painted all the money burgundy.”

We had reached this point in our conversation when the police arrived, as I’d guessed they would. They came in a pair, and they had to order some kataife before they started to question us.

We talked to the cops for a while, but no one learned anything useful on either side. Yes, we told them, we had been at the Pierogi Palace looking for Mr. Harding, but he was dead before we got there; no, I didn’t know Mr. Harding personally, although Mr. Higgins knew him peripherally as a member of the Amanuenses’ Club; yes, we would be available for further questioning; no, we did not need tickets to the Policemen’s Annual Modern Dance Recital.

“So tell me,” I began after the cops’ questions petered out, “are you treating this as a murder investigation?”

“Depends on how bored we are,” said Cop No. 1. “If we got lots to do, it’s a heart attack. If we’re just sitting around bored out of our minds, it’s murder. We gotta be prepared for any eventuality.”

I thanked him for the information, and the two cops went back to the counter to order some kataife for the road.

Mr. Higgins and I had just resumed our conversation on various shades of dark red when the cops retuned from the counter and spoke to us again. “Of course, if it turns out to be murder, you two will be our prime suspects. So I wouldn’t leave town or anything.”

“I would,” the other cop interrupted.

The first one gave him an icy stare.

“I mean, if it were me,” Cop 2 continued. “If I knew I might be charged with murder, I’d get going pretty quick.”

“But where would you go?” Cop 1 demanded.

“Don’t know. I hear Scranton is nice.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean you’d be a fugitive, and everyone would be after you. They’d get you one way or another.”

“Yeah, but it’s a better chance than you’d have with a murder charge,” Cop 2 insisted. “Especially with the way we can plant evidence and all. Even if you didn’t do nothin’, you still end up in for life. I’d leave town and go live in Scranton under an assumed name.”

“What is it with you and Scranton?”

“I’ve always wanted to see Scranton.”

Here Mr. Higgins interrupted. “But this is absurd. Mr. Harding was dead two hours before we arrived at the Pierogi Palace. The death had already been reported. Surely your witnesses told you that.”

“Yes,” the first cop responded, “but all time is relative.”

“No it isn’t,” Cop 2 objected.

“Yes it is,” Cop 1 insisted.

“No it isn’t. Time is absolute. ‘Time’s winged chariot’ ’n’ ’at.”

“But Einstein makes time itself depend on—”

“Yes, but Einstein’s calculations make a difference only at extremes of relative velocity, not in ordinary—”

“So does this mean we’re charged with murder?” I demanded.

“Not yet,” Cop 1 replied. “But I wouldn’t leave town.”

“I would,” said Cop 2.

 

Proceed to Chapter 7.

 

THE CASE OF THE MISSING CASE.

(Continuing the narrative which began here.)

Chapter 5: Which Describes a Short Visit to a Drive-Through Pierogi Parlor.

 

WE DROVE THROUGH East Hills, East Liberty, East Pittsburgh, Edgewood, Ellicott City, and Emsworth, in alphabetical order. We were nearly at Esplen when we realized we had skipped Economy, so we had to go back and do it all over again. It was very late when we finally got to Esplen, but luckily the Pierogi Palace is open all night. We pulled up to the drive-through menu.

“Yinz ready to order?” came a voice over the loudspeaker.

Mr. Higgins spoke clearly and distinctly into the head of Pierogi the Clown. “Could you perhaps suggest something?”

“We got pierogies,” said the voice. “We got pierogies stuffed with anchovies, apples, artichoke hearts, bananas, basil, beets, burdock, cardoon (which is really the same thing), caviar, cheese, cilantro, cumin, damson plums, dandelion leaves, eels, eggs, fennel, figs, garam masala, goose liver, gunpowder tea, ham, herring, hog bellies, ice cream, India rubber, jujubes, kale, lamb, London broil, mango, marshmallow, mushrooms, near beer, noodles, oranges, oregano, peaches, pears, prawns, quinces, radishes, rose hips, salmon, sole, sushi, tamarind, tarragon, tripe, turnips, umbrine, uranoscopus, veal, venison, vodka, walnuts, watermelon, wintergreen, ximenia (ha!), yak meat, yams, yogurt, zabaglione, zucchini, zwieback, or any combination. Yinz made up your minds, or yinz want to hear the list again, specially since I left out potatoes?”

I leaned over Mr. Higgins and spoke as clearly as I could into the clown head. “Actually, my friend Mr. Harding, who comes here every day, recommended this place to me. I was thinking of having his usual.”

“You mean the potato, tripe, and cheese, with extra cheese and a cup of butter on the side?” asked the clown head.

“Sure,” I answered.

“Five twenty-three at the window,” said the clown head.

“I presume,” said Mr. Higgins, “that you have some procedure in mind that does not involve consuming such a concoction.”

“Watch and learn,” I said confidently. I was in my element now.

We pulled up to the window, and a middle-aged woman opened the glass. “Five twenty-three,” she said.

I handed a ten to Mr. Higgins, who handed it to the woman in the window.

“So I’ll bet you see a lot of Mr. Harding,” I said while she was making change.

“Too much lately,” the woman responded.

“Really? You know, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell him. When do you expect him next?”

“Oh, he’s here now,” she replied. “In that blue car over there.” She indicated a small Korean hatchback.

“Well, that’s lucky!” Actually, I could hardly believe my luck.

“Of course, he’s dead now,” she continued, “so he probably won’t be interested in what you had to tell him. Hope it wasn’t important.”

“Dead?” Suddenly I didn’t feel so lucky.

“Yeah, he keeled over about three hours ago. Heart attack, I’d say. We’re just waiting for the cops to come and redd up the mess. Not surprising, what with him eating potato, cheese, and tripe with extra cheese and a cup of butter on the side all the time. That stuff would kill a horse. Here’s your potato, cheese, and tripe with extra cheese and a cup of butter on the side.”

Well, that was depressing. Mr. Higgins carefully handed me the order, holding it only with his fingertips. I took it and set it on my lap, which was the only place where it would fit in the Bantam.

We parked next to Harding’s car.

“Something of a disappointment,” Mr. Higgins said. “Still, if he did abscond with the case and the cash, it is very likely that the police will find them at his residence, or perhaps even in his car.”

“No.” I was pretty sure of myself. “The first thing an absconder does is find a place to stash the loot. He knows his house and his car will be searched.” I spoke from experience. Just by coincidence, my cases number 101 and number 102 had also been cases of missing cash. In each case I searched the absconder’s apartment and car first. I never did figure out where either of them stashed the loot, but I did know it wasn’t there.

“Anyway,” I continued, there’s nowhere to hide anything in that little hatchback. You can see right into the trunk, and there’s nothing there but a bunch of automatic weapons and a street map of Ottawa. Nothing interesting at all.”

“So what do you intend to do?” Mr. Higgins asked.

“I’m hungry.” I looked down at the lumpy dumplings in my lap. “You want to eat this?”

“No,” Mr. Higgins replied with an involuntary sneer. “Thank you, but no.”

“Neither do I. Let’s go to the Hagia Sophia Diner. They sell food there.”

 

Proceed to Chapter 6.

THE CASE OF THE MISSING CASE.

(Continuing the narrative which began here.)

Chapter 4: In Which I Am a Member of the Amanuenses’ Club

 

A VALET GREETED us in front of the club. “Good evening, Mr. Higgins,” he said as we got out of the tiny Bantam. I thought at first that he was talking to me, since my name was supposed to be Higgins now, but he seemed to be talking to the bowler man instead. The same thing happened inside: a liveried attendant met us at the door and quite clearly greeted the bowler man as “Mr. Higgins.”

As we walked through the walnut-paneled foyer, I turned to the bowler man.

“Did he say your name was Higgins?” I asked.

“Yes, he did.”

“But didn’t you say my name was supposed to be Higgins?”

“Yes, Mr. Higgins.”

“Well, why on earth did you give me your name?”

“Every member of the Amanuenses’ Club is named Higgins, Mr. Higgins. It spares us a certain amount of confusion.”

“So that fellow who met us at the door was named Higgins, too?”

“No, Mr. Higgins.”

“But I thought you said—”

“He is an employee, Mr. Higgins, not a member. Employees are not named Higgins.”

“I see. So what was his name, just out of curiosity?”

“Wiggins.”

“Wiggins?”

“Yes, Mr. Higgins. Employees are named Wiggins.” By this time we had entered a long walnut-paneled hallway, at the end of which was a tastefully elaborate door. “Now, Mr. Higgins, we are about to pass through the club reading room, and I should warn you that talking is prohibited, as indeed is noise of any sort.”

“So I shouldn’t say anything or stamp my feet too loud or anything like that?”

“You will not be able to, Mr. Higgins. The prohibition is enforced very strictly.” He opened the door and held it for me to enter. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to, but I did.

The room was just as walnutty as the rest of the building. Hundreds of newspapers in all languages hung from long dowels, and a few men in dark suits were reading some of them.

I suddenly noticed that my new shoes were making no sound at all on the walnut floor. They had been clattering as noisily as the bowler man’s in the hallway, but now I couldn’t hear a sound from either of us. I stamped my foot: still nothing. I did an improvised tap dance: not a sound. I turned to the bowler man to ask him what was going on, but I couldn’t hear my own voice, even though my mouth was forming words and I could feel vibrations in my throat. All the time, the newspaper readers kept reading, paying no attention to me at all.

Finally—and it couldn’t happen soon enough for me—we reached the end of the room and went through another door. I heard it close behind me, and I heard the very welcome clatter of my own shoes on the floor.

“Here we are, Mr. Higgins,” the bowler man announced. “Mr. Higgins has promised to meet us here. Mr. Higgins is the club vice-president, and he may be able to tell you something about Mr. Higgins, the Countess von Sturzhelm y Sombrero’s missing secretary.”

“I thought you said his name was Harding.”

“In the club his name is Higgins.”

Of course I had known that, but I must have forgotten it for a moment.

“Higgins, old man!” came a voice from the left. I turned and saw a gentleman in a dark suit entering by a side door.

The bowler man looked almost cheerful. “How are you, Mr. Higgins?” he said as the two Higginses shook hands. “Allow me to present Mr. Higgins, our newest member.”

Mr. Higgins extended his hand, and I shook it. “A great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Higgins,” he said, “and an even greater pleasure to welcome you to our club.”

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, Mr. Higgins.” Was that really my voice speaking those words?

“Well, I shan’t waste your time, Mr. Higgins,” said Mr. Higgins. “Mr. Higgins here tells me that you have expressed some concern over the apparent disappearance of Mr. Higgins, lately in the employ of the Countess Tatiana von Sturzhelm y Sombrero. I believe I may be able to render some slight assistance.

“Thank you, Mr. Higgins,” I replied to Mr. Higgins. “Mr. Higgins believes that Mr. Higgins may be involved in a small matter that concerns me.”

“Mr. Higgins is being too charitable, Mr. Higgins,” said Mr. Higgins. “The fact is that Mr. Higgins and I suspect that Mr. Higgins may have been involved in a crime of a particularly shameful sort.”

“That is a grave matter,” Mr. Higgins said gravely. “Perhaps the club president ought to be informed.”

“I agree,” Mr. Higgins replied. “I think Mr. Higgins ought to know.”

Mr. Higgins turned to me. “Well then, Mr. Higgins,” he said, “under these unusual circumstances, it would be appropriate that we consult the archives.” He stepped over to the wall and picked up a telephone handset. “Wiggins? Higgins here. I shall be bringing Mr. Higgins and Mr. Higgins to the archives to find some information on Mr. Higgins. Could you have Mr. Wiggins meet us there? Thank you.”

The archives were in a walnut paneled room at the end of another walnut-paneled hallway. The walls were lined with walnut file cabinets, each drawer bearing a label with the letter H on it. There must have been about a hundred H drawers in all. A small man in eighteenth-century livery was standing at attention in the center of the room, where there was a large reading desk and a pair of walnut chairs.

“Wiggins,” said Mr. Higgins, “could you please pull the file on Mr. Higgins?”

With a slight nod, Wiggins turned and marched to a drawer labeled “H.” He pulled it out about five feet, reached in near the back, and retrieved a file marked “HIGGINS.”

“Thank you, Wiggins,” said Mr. Higgins. He opened the file, and Mr. Higgins and I examined the contents.

“As you can see,” said Mr. Higgins, “we keep a considerable amount of information on each of our members. Naturally, we use this information to give all our members the comprehensive service they expect. For example, in the case of Mr. Higgins, we can see that his favorite color is red, and that he prefers his red in the burgundy range.”

We were looking at a single dark red sheet of paper on which the word “Higgins” was printed in large white letters.

“Now here,” Mr. Higgins continued, “is some information that may be of even more use to you. These are Mr. Higgins’ dietary requirements. As you can see, Mr. Higgins has a rare condition called DIS, or Dumpling Insufficiency Syndrome. His body cannot retain starch in sufficient quantities. He requires, therefore, a steady input of pierogies to survive. This requirement naturally limits his range of activity: he can survive only where pierogies are easily obtained in quantity.”

“Well, how many places are there like that?” I asked.

Here Mr. Higgins spoke up. “This club is one such place, of course: the members expect that all such needs will be met without fail. There are also certain Eastern European churches in the city well known for their pierogies, but only on certain days of the week. Aside, therefore, from this club, the only reliable sources are the drive-through pierogi parlors, and according to the file” (he indicated one sheet in particular) “Mr. Higgins’ favorite is the Pierogi Palace in Esplen.”

“That might indeed be useful information,” I said.

“At least,” said Mr. Higgins, “it gives us an approximate location for Mr. Higgins. If this information is correct (and the club archives have never been known to be wrong), then Mr. Higgins must be somewhere within a five-minute radius of Esplen.”

“Then perhaps, mr. Higgins,” Mr. Higgins said to me, “we ought to pay a visit to Esplen.”

“I agree,” I agreed. “And rather quickly, if we are to have a chance of apprehending Mr. Higgins.” Boy, there was something about this place that sure made me talk funny.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Higgins, “I am very glad to have been of service. —That will be all, Wiggins. Thank you. —Remember, Mr. Higgins, that the club archives are always at your disposal. I do hope that you and Mr. Higgins will be able to bring this unfortunate matter to a speedy conclusion.”

We thanked him, and Wiggins as well, and left to investigate the Pierogi Palace.

As we waited for Wiggins the valet to bring the Bantam, I asked Mr. Higgins a question that had been preying on my mind.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking, what’s your real name?”

“Higgins, sir,” he answered.

“No, I mean outside the club.”

“Higgins, sir.”

“You mean your real name is Higgins?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “A peculiar coincidence, sir.”

Here the Bantam arrived, and we squeezed ourselves into it and set off for Esplen.

 

Proceed to Chapter 5.

THE CASE OF THE MISSING CASE.

(Continuing the narrative which began here.)

Chapter 3: In Which a Little More of Dr. Boli’s Town House Reveals Itself.

 

INSTEAD OF TURNING back toward the right, we turned left at the main hall, which went on for some distance before coming to an end at a perpendicular hallway. Here we turned right, and suddenly we were in what appeared to be a late-Victorian shopping arcade. On both sides of the hall, tidy storefronts bore neatly lettered signs: “Geo. Bruce, Typefounder”; “Wm. Bartram, Travel Agent”; “J. Reynolds, Portraits & Still Lives”; “Parson Brown’s Tropical Fruits”; “Heyser Pianos & Reed Organs.”

“Dr. Boli believers in maintaining a close relationship with his tradesmen,” the bowler man explained. “As the maintenance of this house requires a considerable staff, Dr. Boli has found it more convenient to induce his favorite tradesmen and artisans to remove their establishments to his house, where the large staff alone provides them with considerable patronage, and Dr. Boli’s own orders have made a number of them comparatively wealthy.”

The hall was not quite as busy as one of the city arcades, but there was a lot of traffic in it. Even the type foundry appeared to have two or three customers. We walked past a number of shops until we came to one marked “B. Brummel, Tailor.” We went in the door and were greeted by the most ostentatiously obsequious man I’ve ever met.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said to me, “and a particularly good afternoon to you, sir” to the bowler man. “How may we be of assistance?”

I looked around, but there was only the one of him.

“Mr. Higgins is the new undersecretary,” the bowler man said, indicating me with an elegant wave of his hand. “He requires a wardrobe commensurate with his position.”

“Oh, indubitably, sir. And may we say, sir” (he turned to me) “how honored we are to be of service to a new member of the A. C.”

“Thank you,” I said distractedly. I was still looking for another person to account for the “we.”

“Now, what” (he turned back to the bowler man, and began to talk about me as if I were a piece of furniture) “would Mr. Higgins require of us?”

The bowler man gave him a list of specifications that meant nothing to me; but they must have been clear enough to the first-person-plural man, who kept nodding and saying “We understand perfectly, sir.” In an hour or two I was dressed in a dark suit with a matching bowler and umbrella.

“Oh, yes, sir,” the first-person-plural man said, addressing me for the first time since he’d begun dressing me. “A remarkable improvement, if we may say so. You look every inch the perfect gentleman’s gentleman’s gentleman.”

“Not quite every inch,” the bowler man replied. “There is still the question of Mr. Higgins’ shoes to be addressed.”

“True, sir. We had not mentioned the shoes, sir, because that—alas!—is beyond the reach of our influence. We can, however, recommend Mr. Romanov just down the way. Mr. Romanov, sir, is reliable. ‘Reliable’ is precisely the word that always springs to mind when we think of Mr. Romanov.”

A visit to Nikolai Davidovich Romanov, The Finest Shoes in the Entire Boli Mansion, ended with a pair of shoes on my feet that Prince Edward might have envied. They were exactly the same as the shoes the bowler man was wearing. I had become a bowler man myself.

“And now,” said the original bowler man, “one thing more is requisite, I believe. You must learn to make the proper use of your newly acquired appearance. The finishing touch, as it were, is deportment.”

A few doors down from Mr. Romanov’s shop was a shop whose elaborately scribbled sign read “M. Broadwood, Specialist in Deportment Education.”

“Deportment,” Mr. Broadwood told me, “is, as it were, the finishing touch.” He spoke in perfectly formed syllables, and I had the feeling you couldn’t get the man drunk enough to slur a single consonant. “We cannot learn it in a day, or in a year. A lifetime is not sufficient. We can only approach closer to the ideal, which is ever out of our reach. However, if you will give me an hour of your time, I can assure you that at the end of that hour you will no longer be so easily mistaken for a chimpanzee.”

Well, I told him, that was reassuring.

He began by showing me how to walk. All these years I thought I knew how to walk, but I was wrong. It was all in the shoulders, as Mr. Broadwood explained to me. True, some attention must be given to the feet, and to laying down the heel with quiet authority, and then rolling smoothly over the ball of the foot until finally the toe leaves the ground and the foot is brought forward for the next step. But it is the shoulders that carry the head, and it is the head that is always the focus of attention. It must not bob up and down like a cork in a typhoon, Mr. Broadwood said. It must be carried straight and level, so that if one could see only the head, one would assume that the rest of the body was on wheels rather than on legs. I practiced walking with my shoulders in the approved positions until Mr. Broadwood pronounced himself satisfied.

Then we moved on to hats. I learned when one may wear a hat, when one may not, when one raises the hat, when one touches the brim, how one holds the hat when one is not wearing it, and how to judge whether the hat was on the head at precisely the correct angle.

After hats, umbrellas; and there was certainly as much to learn about them as there was about hats. One held the umbrella, not by the handle, but just above the midpoint; one must be careful that the umbrella swings in a narrow arc as one is walking, so that one does not impale passing pedestrians; one must keep the point in front, never behind, where it might get itself into trouble.

After an hour in the care of Mr. Broadwood, I might not have been a real bowler man, but I had to admit that I felt much more comfortable in the suit.

“And now,” said the bowler man, “I believe you are ready to be introduced to the Club. Dr. Boli has kindly allowed us the use of his Ausitn, if you will follow me to the garage.”

Dr. Boli’s garage must have covered about an acre; it was filled with automobiles from every era, and a few carriages as well. Every vehicle looked new, although some of them, like the Stanley, must have been a hundred years old. We passed one luxurious car after another, until we finally came to the Austin.

It wasn’t quite what I had expected. In most respects it looked like a typical car from the early 1930s, except that the scale was all wrong. It was about half the size of an ordinary car.

“This is it?” I asked with a contemptuous wave of my umbrella.

“The Austin Bantam,” the bowler man said, “is one of Dr. Boli’s favorite automobiles. It appeals to his regard for efficiency. Dr. Boli prefers to use as little fuel as possible, except on formal occasions.”

So we crawled into the little car, with the bowler man driving. I’d like to be able to tell you that it was surprisingly roomy inside, but it wasn’t. It was just as tiny inside as it was outside.

We drove through Shaler, Sharpsburg, Sheraden, Squirrel Hill, and Stowe, in alphabetical order, until we finally came to a neighborhood I didn’t remember ever having seen before. We were on a street lined with fine buildings, and many of them bore brass plaques identifying them as clubs or associations. We passed the Lempriere Society, the Blythe Fellows’ Convivial Association, the Circle of Fifths, the Merry Steamfitters, the Grave & Sober Steamfitters, the Young Women’s Cartesian Athletic Association, and the Opium Eaters’ Temperance Union before we finally came to the Amanuenses’ Club, which was neither the grandest nor the most modest of the lot, but somewhere tastefully in the middle.

 

Proceed to Chapter 4.