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"Look, Slothe," Inspector Kramer grumbled, "this case belongs to Detective Thornhill. He's the one who called you. I'm just here as an observer." With that, he blew a bubble and popped it, knowing Mr. Slothe's abhorrence to gum.
Strictly speaking, I was an observer myself. As confidential assistant to Harry Slothe, World Famous Private Investigator, I acted as the blind detective's eyes and legs. We'd arrived a few minutes earlier at the request of Detective Thornhill of the City Police. It looked like one of those murders that was custom-made for a genius like Mr. Slothe.
Detective Thornhill, short and squat, with the kind of haircut that's usually called chemotherapy, laid out the facts.
"The victim is George Kaplan, age fifty-seven. Came home late from work. Apparently the killer was waiting in the garage to ambush him. Two shots in the chest." He pointed a finger at Mr. Slothe. "Bang. Bang."
"Evocative, Mr. Thornhill, " said the gigantic detective. "On the telephone, you said something about a clue suited to my particular skills?"
Inspector Kramer snorted. We ignored him.
"That's right. After Kaplan fell to the garage floor, he scrawled a dying clue with his own blood."
"The killer's name?" inquired Mr. Slothe.
"We don't know. Unfortunately, the victim's car has an oil leak. By the time his body was found, most of the clue had been obliterated by a black puddle. All that's left are the first three letters - P-O-L."
"And you haven't found a suspect with a connection to those letters?"
Inspector Kramer did a fair impression of a gameshow's "wrong answer" buzzer. We disregarded him.
"That's the problem!" exclaimed Thornhill. "We've got too many. Kaplan's daughter Polly, who stands to inherit a bundle. She was pretty deep in debt."
"Gambling?"
"College loans. You know those things never go away. Word has it Polly was getting desperate. After all, she's thirty-four."
"And the other suspects?"
"The next door neighbor, Mrs. Polner. She and the deceased were frequently heard arguing over who should trim the shrub that grows on their property line. Then there's Emil Debronsky, the victim's business partner. He's a Polish immigrant. Fourth suspect, Anthony Armbrister, a neighborhood pollster who had the door slammed in his face last week by the victim. Then there's his nephew, an Olympic pole-vaulter."
I could see that Mr. Slothe was getting hungry, so I dug a bag of corn chips out of my pocket and handed them over. The first motto of the detective's assistant is Be Prepared!
The policeman continued. "Mayor McBrie, the politician, was under pressure from the City Council to bulldoze Kaplan's house and put up an ATM. Kaplan's maid, who happens to be Polynesian, hadn't had a raise in seventeen years. And Kaplan's former physician - who's under investigation because of Kaplan's testimony - is an avid polo player."
"Is that all?" Mr. Slothe asked, finishing the last corn chip. Detective Thornhill flipped a page in his notebook.
"We've also got a polymer scientist, a former member of the Politburo, a polka dancer, a polar bear, and a poltergeist. Oh, yes, and a Mrs. Wilson."
"What is her connection to the dying clue?"
"She's exceptionally polite," answered Thornill.
"Well, at least we've eliminated President James K. Polk," said Inspector Kramer. We ignored him and he added, "Hey, c'mon. That was a good one."
"I've kept all the suspects here, in case you want to question them yourself. Maybe you'll have better luck than I did."
Mr. Slothe was quiet, either deep in thought or more deeply in sleep. I nudged him and he spoke. "Very well," the Brobdingnagian sleuth sighed. "The sooner we get started, the sooner we shall finish."
Over the next sixteen hours, Mr. Slothe asked a lot of questions, and I brought him a lot of food. After the restaurants closed, I sent for Peaseporter, our butler and cook. He whipped up several dishes using the kitchen and food that would no longer be needed by the late Mr. Kaplan.
As for the interrogation, the answers I heard were unanimous and negative. No, they hadn't been at Mr. Kaplan's house last night. No, they didn't hate the victim enough to kill him. No, they hadn't even seen Kaplan in days.
As Mr. Slothe downed the last of a blueberry pie, he growled angrily. "Bah! None of them knows a thing. It's been a monumental waste of time. Detective Thornhill, when you questioned the suspects yourself, did you get any satisfaction?"
"None," answered Thornhill wearily. "According to them, they all learned of Kaplan's death from the police. In fact, I called most of them myself, yesterday evening."
"Hmmm," the great detective murmured, his head drooping to one side. He was either considering a solution to this puzzle or had suffered another mild stroke. When he continued, I knew it was the former. "Detective Thornhill, what time was the victim killed?"
"About 7:45."
"And he was shot with what caliber weapon?"
"A thirty-eight."
"Interesting. Inspector Kramer, you said you were here as an observer. I ask you now, as the senior officer present, to make an arrest for the murder of George Kaplan."
MR. SLOTHE HAS THE SOLUTION. DO YOU?
The only P-O-L connection conspicuously absent from Detective Thornhill's list was POLICE, specifically, Detective Thornhill himself. Of all the suspects, he was the only one with intimate knowledge of the murder, knowing the time, weapon and other circumstances that only the killer himself could know.