An Owl Too Many by Charlotte MacLeod Page A

Emmerick.
    “Okay, Professor, this report’s in my own handwriting, so I guess I’ve got to believe it. We might as well put in the rest of the story. How may P s in ‘hypnotized’?”
    “I know, Chief.” Budge Dorkin had recently came across a cache of old Charlie Chan and Dr. Fu Manchu paperbacks in his grandmother’s attic. He was reading them to improve his policing skills and had become surprisingly erudite as a result. “Let me write up the report this time. Shall I put in about Mrs. Ottermole bringing the beans and hot dogs?”
    “Sure, why not? Let the public know we treated that bastard right even if he did turn out to be a lousy ingrate,” the chief replied bitterly. “Anyways, I bet we’re the only cops in Balaclava County who’ve ever been hypnotized by a master criminal.”
    “Think of it as another anecdote for your memoirs, Ottermole,” said Peter. “Let’s see, it’s now—good Lord, it’s half-past five. Where has the day gone? My wife must be home from the library by now.”
    “Oh gosh,” cried Budge, “and my Aunt Maude’s coming to supper with her new boyfriend. Mind if I take off now, Chief? My mother’ll kill me if I don’t show up.”
    “I thought you were all gung-ho to catch the master criminal.”
    “Well, yeah, but my mother—”
    “Fanshaw’s over the hills and far away by now, I expect,” Peter interposed. “Like as not, that lawyer was waiting on the corner with a getaway car while I was horsing around with Emmerick’s haberdashery. Speaking of cars, Ottermole, Fanshaw left one at the field station when I ran him in, and Emmerick must have had another parked here somewhere. He drove Miss Binks in from the field station yesterday afternoon, as I recall, but they met me at Charlie Ross’s garage and we all drove out to our territory together. I was damned annoyed about his coming, I may add. I hadn’t expected Emmerick to invite himself along on the owl count. Aside from his being a total loss as a counter, it meant we three had to squeeze together in the front seat. Dan Stott and the president took the whole back, needless to say. Didn’t Mrs. Freedom mention anything to you about Emmerick’s car?”
    “Come to think of it, not a yip,” the chief replied. “Go ahead home, Budge. Frank Lomax ought to be along any minute now. I’d better give Mrs. Freedom a buzz and see what she has to say about the car.
    What Mrs. Freedom had to say was short and shrill. She didn’t know anything about Mr. Emmerick’s car, nor did she want to. She had guests to feed. She’d thank Fred Ottermole to run his own business and leave her to do likewise.
    “That means the car is not in her parking lot,” Ottermole interpreted. “If it was, she’d still be bending my ear about getting it out. I’ll try Charlie Ross.”
    Charlie was home eating his supper, according to a minion who’d been left to run the gas pumps. Several cars were in the lot. Most of them belonged to Peter’s neighbors because parking was restricted on the Crescent; there wasn’t one whose owner the minion couldn’t name.
    “I don’t s’pose you’d care to cruise around town and see if Emmerick’s car is parked on the road anywhere?” Ottermole asked Peter. “Or I could go myself after Frank comes in. The cruiser’s makin’ those awful noises again and I was kind of hopin’ to eat supper with Edna Mae and the boys, but…”
    Peter suppressed a sigh. “I get the picture, Ottermole. All right, I don’t mind going.” Like hell he didn’t. “Just let me make one more call first.”
    The call was to the field station. Knapweed Calthrop answered and was, if not happy to be of service, at least willing. Yes, Mr. Fanshaw’s car was still in the lot. Yes, it was a 1989 gray Chevy. Yes, the license plates corresponded with the numbers Professor Shandy had read off to him. What did the professor want him to do about the car?
    “Nothing, thanks. I’ll see that it’s taken care of.”
    Peter