Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

A Jewel from the East

By Simon Maltman

I was finishing for the day and finishing a cigarette when the door shot open; spoiling my plans for a quiet evening in Whites’ and maybe a game of snooker. It was around 6pm, though it looked like midnight; rain blowing around like it didn't know where to go. It was the 23rd of December 1938- I remembered because I was meant to have a whole day left to start my Christmas shopping.

"I'm sorry for barging in, I need your help- please Mr Chapman."
What blew into my office looked like it could have been all my Christmases come at once. She looked around my age at the time- early thirties, that's where the comparisons ended. She was a blonde to my brunette- albeit dyed. She was tall for a girl- around 5.7; I'm told I'm under for a man at 5.09. She looked fearful, but it didn't detract from her natural beauty, lightly dusted in makeup. She wore a tight red dress concealed by a black raincoat. I lifted my jaw off of the floor and tried to work my mouth.

"Come in and sit down." I stood, then ambled around the side of my desk.

"Thank you." She beamed at me despite her obvious distress. She took off her jacket, fixed her hair a little and took a seat. My office is on the first floor of a small block in East Belfast. That night there was no one else left in the building but me and this angel. I flicked open one of the blinds on my window, no one outside but Jack Frost.

"Drink?" I said. She nodded and I shook my whiskey bottle out of its short nap in my bottom drawer. I poured us both a Bushmills.

"Sorry I've no ice."

"That's alright, I like it neat." She wrapped her long fingers around the glass. She shivered.

"So, what’s this all about?"

She smiled briefly, but her brow furrowed. She sat up straighter and plucked a cigarette out of a gold-top case. "I suppose I should tell you my name first. I'm Lucy." She looked down at the table.

I tipped my glass, "Pleased to know you Lucy."

"I'm in some trouble as you can probably guess. I found you in the book- Private Detective aren't you?" She took a small gulp.

"Yeah." I studied her, drained my drink and poured us another.

"Do you do other things too?" She asked apprehensively.

"Nothing illegal, I've got a licence to keep."

"Of course," she studied me back and drew on her cigarette. "There's someone I kind of need warned off."

We both left that to sit there a moment. I flicked some ash.

"Who is he and what's he done to you?" I asked evenly.

Something flickered on her face, I thought it was disgust.

"He's a bully Mr Chapman. He's a thug."

"Call me Billy and I'm gonna need a little more than that."

"He's a guy I've been seeing. I ‘was’ seeing. He started getting heavy if you know what I mean. He then hit me a few times and nearly broke my door off one night trying to force his way into my house drunk."
Her hand looked like it shook a little and she blinked back a few tears. I lit another cigarette.

"Why don't you go to the police?"

"He's a well-connected man. To the police I mean -- not paramilitaries. A so called war hero too, says he was at Normandy and everything. The police wouldn't do anything for me."

"Okay- I could speak to him and see what I can do."

"Thank you!" She bounced up and embraced me. She kissed my cheek. I breathed in her scent.

As I fought against the rain, I pulled my raincoat tighter and cursed myself for not going home on a half day. I glanced back at my office window, still dimly illuminated. I had thought I was agreeing to talk to this guy sometime before New Year, but she said she was too frightened to go home tonight. I said okay then and she could wait in my office while I go speak to him. It was after 8pm when I got there, only a half hour walk from my office. Belmont Jewellers had its shutters up, but it was hard to tell if there was any light on inside. George Monroe, the owner, was the man I was after. Lucy had said he was usually in his office at the back until at least 9pm. I looked around the empty street questioning what the hell I was doing when I could be drinking quietly in a comfy snug someplace.

I hammered on the door. It fell open easily. "Mr Monroe?" I called, trying to sound suitably authoritative. Nothing. I glanced out into the street, then padded into the hall. It was very dark but there seemed to be a faint light from the back of the main store. ‘To hell with this’ I thought, this isn’t my usual racket. But still I navigated myself carefully between and around the various displays of bracelets and necklaces; my eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness.

"Mr Monroe?" I called a little louder. Still nothing. I made it to the back of the room, a glowing rectangle indicated the office door. I knocked and then opened it.

There was a sudden crack and a bullet sliced into the wall beside my left arm. It wasn't from the guy sitting in the office in front of me because he was dead, partly sprawled over the desk. Besides, it came from behind me. I dived through the door and to the right, rolling behind a filing cabinet. As I moved, another bullet wedged into the desk, hissing. My eyes shot everywhere, blazing with fear and the brightness of the room, looking for a potential weapon. I could hear steps softly treading towards the office. There was a walking stick resting against the wall near to me. I grabbed it and held it to me, and also snatched an empty Coke out of the bin. The footsteps grew closer and then there was an outline at the door. I threw the can into the far corner of the room and the shadow started towards it, gun extended. I threw myself at the figure, beating down wildly with the stick. He took a hit to his head and arm and the gun fell on the ground. I stepped past him into the doorway and he was now bathed in light. He was a cop. We looked at each other and then he reached for the gun. I hit him once more around the head and then I ran. I didn't hardly stop until I made it back to East Belfast. I sprinted over the train tracks and could just make out the dim light of my office window as I ran towards it. As I ran past Harland and Wolfe shipyard, I could hear ‘We three kings’ being butchered at a staff party somewhere. I let myself into my building and idled a little up the stairs, tiring. I went in. She was gone.

I was shaking a little from the cold and a lot from the shock of the last half hour. I took off my coat and wet jacket and switched the light on. I sat down and drank straight out of the bottle. I lit up and started to think. First off I had beaten a cop pretty rough. But cops don’t start shooting at your back without asking questions, well not usually anyway. He must have had an angle. Did he kill Monroe? What about Lucy? I sat thinking for a few minutes.

Damn- you’re stupid Chapman- I thought suddenly and I killed the lights. If the cop had been expecting me he might know where my office is and come looking. I sat in the twilight, watching the smoke from my cigarette float away. What about Lucy? Was her story all sour? Was she in something with this cop? If she was then she’d have to tell him that she had snagged me. I looked out the blinds- still nothing but the silhouette of the cranes. I picked up the telephone.

“Hello operator? Yes, I placed a call about an hour ago. Thank you. Yes 7.35p.m that would be the one. Could you see if you have an address listed please? Thanks. The Great Eastern Bar- yeah I know it, thanks.”
I hung up. The bar was around the corner from the jewellers. I had been set up to be a patsy. I couldn’t believe it. Five years in this game and I had never got taken for a ride like this before. Silently a car pulled up outside the office with no lights on. It was a police car with one person inside. I sat very still. I put out my smoke. I could see the driver looking up at my building and could see his cigarette smoke drifting up towards me through his car window. After about twenty minutes he drove away. I waited another ten and then grabbed my coat and went down the stairs and out the back way.

It had stopped raining, so I arrived at The Great Eastern relatively dry. I had avoided walking near to the jewellers- I didn’t know if it would be a crime scene yet.

“Bushmills and ice please.” The stocky barman moved away to pour it. I looked around- it was quiet, most people were probably saving themselves for the holidays. I handed over four shillings.

“And some information.” I looked at the barman and his eyes flitted round the room. He took the money and slipped it into his trouser pocket.

“What do you want to know?” he asked mildly.

“A guy got a phone call about seven thirty here right?”

“Yeah.”

“He was a peeler?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah I know him a little, his name’s Davy.”

“Ok, now this is what the money’s for- do you know where he lives?”

“I could find out Mister. This won’t come back on me? You never talked to me -- right?”

“Right.”

He pushed the curtain behind the bar over and disappeared for a few minutes. When he returned he told me the address. It was out towards the City Centre. Soon I was back out into the cold, but I hoped in about fifteen minutes I’d know better what the hell was going on.

The house was on the end of a terrace. It looked nice enough and the neighbourhood wasn’t the worst. I couldn’t see a tree or any mistletoe. I didn’t care much as long as I’d get a few answers there. There was no light on in the front rooms of the house. There was an alleyway at the side. I sidled down it and climbed over a five foot wall into the garden. There was a light on in the back room. I crawled past it to the other side of the back of the house. I tried a few windows. I got lucky with a broken sash on the kitchen window. I crept in. The house was quiet. The light was coming from the sitting room at the back. I burst into it.
Lucy stood up from her chair only appearing mildly startled.

“Detective.” She smiled almost sweetly, but this was not the same face that I had seen earlier. It contorted a little more. “Have a seat.”

The room was rather gaudy; small with a sofa, a chair and a few bits and pieces. I took off my coat and sat down on the sofa; she returned to her chair. We stared at each other and my heart raced. She still looked sensational.

“So- why me?” I asked.

She sighed. “As you are here there’s not much point in lying to you now. We just needed a fall guy that’s all- one’s as good as any other. Davy’s out looking for you now- he said you gave him quite the bash.” Her red dress didn’t look stitched by angels anymore- maybe forged in hades.

“Yeah I’m sorry about that- sometimes I get nasty when someone tries to kill me and frame me for a murder. So who was Monroe to you anyway? Your husband?”

“Yes actually Mr Chapman, I’m Bernadette Monroe.” She frowned. “And you are quite the nuisance.” She reached into her purse and took out a small lady’s revolver, a little colt.

“It would look a trifle messy if my body turned up in your cop boyfriend’s house.” I said.

“Shut up Chapman.” She licked her lips.

Seconds later the hinges were tested again as the door flew open. It was Davy, holding a Smith and Wesson. I felt a little left out.

“You okay Bee?” he panted.

“I’m fine, put that away, we’re just having a nice little talk.”

He did what he was told and glared at me. He took off his hat and stood in the middle of the room apparently waiting further instruction. I smirked at the marks across his face.

“So, you two thought you would knock off the husband and at the same time steal his money? What- say an accomplice to me got away with the bread and then get an insurance claim going too? Is that the gist?”
Bee got up slowly, holding the gun tightly, “No, the story is you two pulled off the robbery, nothing to do with me, then you had an argument after stashing the money.”

Davy backed away towards the wall, aghast, “Bee!”

“It’s been fun,” she said dryly to him and pulled the trigger.

He slumped down the wall to the floor, already dead. She turned to me. I was standing now. She went to turn the gun on me. I whipped anything and everything off the mantelpiece at her, forcing her arm down and sending her off balance. I plucked the gun from her fingers as she came at me viciously with both hands. I hit her once with the back of my hand. She fell down onto the floor. I hadn’t hurt her much, but her head hung low, more like a chastised child.

The Police took their time in clearing me. I’m not their favourite person at the best of times. Now I was interrupting their carol singing or something. It was 10 a.m on Christmas Eve when I finally got back to my flat in Sydenham. I went straight to bed and into a deep sleep. When I got up again it was Christmas Day. I didn’t give any presents that year. I woke from a dream where Santa Claus was chasing me with a 45.

Short Bio

Simon Maltman is a writer and musician from Northern Ireland. He has been published in a number of magazines and anthologies. This has included short stories, poetry and various articles. He is also an active member of the music scene through a number of bands, including his own. He has a number of albums available and has performed and received radio play throughout Ireland.