The Purloined Letter
My
name is Deadbolt, Hasp Deadbolt. I’m a P.I. I try to stay away from
family disputes, but somehow that is the kind of sordid crime that
people persist in bringing me. I have to eat, and I’m not
comfortable living off of Alma’s largesse. Fortunately for my bank
account, this year had been very busy. In fact, I hardly had any time
to pay the bills and buy groceries. For instance, I returned from my
last court appearance in connection with the pumpkin murder case, to
find a handsome young woman sitting on the bench outside my office
door. “Good afternoon,” I said to her, “are you waiting for
me?” She indicated that she was hoping to speak to Mr. Deadbolt
about a potential case, and I invited her in to discuss it. It seems
that she had mislaid a letter, a rather steamy love letter, and it
had fallen into the wrong hands.
“My
lover sent me that letter, Mr. Deadbolt, and I’m not ashamed of it.
Unfortunately, his wife probably would take a dim view of the
intimate nature of our relationship.”
Blackmail.
One of the oldest tricks in the book. Not that there really is any
such book, but if there were, blackmail would be covered pretty near
the beginning, and not just alphabetically. She wanted me to find the
blackmailer and steal the letter back.
“I
can’t break the law Miss...?”
“Daw.
But you can call me Marjorie.”
“And
what about your friend?”
“His
name is John Sprat, but everyone calls him Jack. His wife is
horrible. She’s this domineering, fat, selfish...”
“I
get the picture Miss Daw. Let me do some scouting, and I’ll see
whether I can find a satisfactory solution to your problem.” So it
was agreed. I got a little more information from her, she thanked me
and left, and I immediately got to work. It didn’t take long to
find out where both Marjorie Daw and the Sprats lived. The problem
was, Marjorie hadn’t had much of an idea of where she lost the
letter, so I didn’t have a good lead about where to look for the
blackmailer. I spent some time casing the neighborhoods where
Marjorie and the Sprats lived, and nearby parts of the city, but I
didn’t get any ideas. I decided to try a different approach. It was
time to pay another visit to the Weasel. There might be word out on
the street about who the blackmailer was, and if the word was out,
the Weasel would know about it.
I
slid into a seat at the usual place. When the waiter came over I
ordered two drafts and asked about the Weasel. A few minutes later,
the Weasel dropped onto the bench across from me.
“What
is it this time, Deadbeat?” he asked.
“Information.
I need information,” I replied. “Marjorie Daw had a letter in her
basket, but she dropped it.”
“The
basket?”
“The
letter.”
“What
color was the basket?”
“Green
and yellow. Where’s the letter?”
“A
little boy picked it up. He put it in his pocket.” If I wanted to
know any more, it would cost me, the Weasel said. Soon I had all the
information I needed. Next stop: the Pumpkin Eater house. (No
relation to the unlamented Jack Smith.)
I
walked up the four steps to the front door and rang the bell at a
rundown brownstone in the old part of town. The whole neighborhood
was dilapidated, but this house was the worst on the block. It looked
like it was owned by someone who either was down on his luck or
didn’t care enough to maintain it.
“Hello?”
“Mr.
Pumpkin Eater? Peter Pumpkin Eater?”
“Yes.”
“I’d
like a word or two with you.”
“What
about?”
“Home
maintenance. This place is about to be condemned. But I can help
you.” Oldest trick in the book, but he went for it. Okay, maybe
it’s the second oldest trick. Anyway, it got me inside, and that’s
what counted. Once I made it through the door I confronted him about
the letter. “Blackmail is a serious crime, Mr. Pumpkin Eater. You
could go to jail for a long time. What’s it gonna be?”
“It’s
my wife, it’s not my fault,” he wailed. “No matter what I do I
just can’t satisfy her. It takes more money than I have. I already
had to move into town and neglect my farm but it hasn’t done a bit
of good.” I had an idea.
“I
have an idea,” I said. “If I solve your problem, will you return
the letter?”
“Mr.
Deadbolt, if you solve my problem I’ll be forever in your debt.”
He was actually wringing his hands. “I’m at my wits’ end.”
“Here’s
what you’re going to do,” I said. “Put her in a pumpkin shell.
There you’ll keep her very well. Trust me. Women go for that kind
of stuff.” I was flying by the seat of my pants here, but he seemed
goofy enough to go for it. Sure enough, he did.
“A
pumpkin shell? Why, I have plenty of those on the farm. Thank you,
thank you!” He gave me the letter, promised to never blackmail
anybody again, and thanked me so many times that I started to feel
guilty. But I had what I needed.
Marjorie
Daw was very grateful. Almost too grateful, considering we both had
other romantic attachments. But that’s another story. As for Peter
Pumpkin Eater, I ran into him a couple of months later. Everything
was fine between him and his wife, he said. Best advice he’d ever
received, he told me, and he said I could have all the pumpkins I
wanted every year at Halloween, free. Go figure. I guess if the P.I.
business ever gets too low I could hire out as a marriage counselor.
The
end
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