something.”
“See you soon, then,” Garson replied confidently.
Quinn chuckled as he hung up the telephone. “He says it’s Opalmeyer,” he reported to his assistant. “A clever man, our Garson. I’ll be going over there in a hour; see that my little surprise is ready.”
Chief Quinn had solved The Case of the Full-Sized Midget two days ago. F. K. Opalmeyer was already behind bars.
3
Savoring his moment of triumph, Garson himself opened the front door. “Welcome, Chief Quinn. I assume you have apprehended the perpetrator.”
“One half hour after you called,” Quinn lied with a big smile. “Congratulations, Garson. Or is it Sherlock Holmes? And Doctor Watson, I presume.”
“Hello, Chief,” Dickory said, looking around to see if the hats had been left out. They were out of sight; the chief was joking.
Garson sat down in the wing chair with a drink, but Quinn refused to join him. Casually, he toured the studio. “Out of work, I see,” he remarked, glancing at the empty easels. “And what’s this?” He stopped before one of the naked manikins. “I could have you arrested for indecent exposure, Madam, or is it Sir?” The chief certainly was in good humor.
“I gather you not only captured the jewel thief, but recovered the bracelet as well,” Garson guessed.
“Thanks to you, we certainly did.” The chief walked into the kitchen area. “Don’t bother, Hickory, I can pour my own coffee. I’ve been here too often to be treated as a guest.” At last the chief sat down. “Now, tell me how you did it.”
“Professional secret,” Garson replied coolly. “But I can tell you how Opalmeyer did it. You see, there would not have been time to break the glass, then steal the bracelet after the alarm went off. Opalmeyer had a key. When someone—probably Opalmeyer himself—shouted about the President, he unlocked the case, took out the bracelet, and locked the case again. When he smashed the glass, the bracelet was already in the envelope in his pocket.”
“Well, what do you know,” said the chief.
“Very clever of Opalmeyer,” Garson continued. “If he had been caught taking the bracelet, he would have been innocent of any crime. He was, after all, president of the company. But no one saw him. In the pretense of running after a thief, Opalmeyer dashed into the hallway, dropped the envelope into the mail slot, then gave his loud description of the nonexistent midget.”
“What was the motive, Chief?” Dickory asked. “Greed?”
“No, he wasn’t going to sell it, he says,” Quinn replied. “Something came over him and he just had to have it. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he wanted to look at it for the rest of his life. Covetousness, I’d call it.”
“That’s a fifth horseman,” Dickory said.
“So it is. All right, change it to greed. Or maybe jealousy. Never in his life’s career had he been able to design a masterpiece like that bracelet. Tell me, Garson, you’re an artist, a creator. Is jealousy reason enough to make a man steal? Or kill?”
“Kill?” Garson was surprised by the question.
The phone rang. “That’s probably for me,” the chief said, rising.
Dickory answered. It was Cookie Panzpresser in tears. Her husband didn’t like the portrait at all. In fact, he hated it and wanted it out of the house this instant. Oh dear, what was she going to do?
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Panzpresser, but Garson isn’t here right now. I’ll give him the message; I’m sure he can work something out. And Mrs. Panzpresser, Cookie, thanks again for letting me see the art collection.” Dickory hung up the phone, stamped her foot, glanced at Garson, jumped and stamped again. She smiled sheepishly at his curious look.
“Could have sworn that phone call was for me,” Quinn said, strangely unaware of Dickory’s stomping. “The Zyzyskczuk case has got the whole department at wit’s end.”
“Maybe I can help,” Garson offered.
“Yes, maybe
“See you soon, then,” Garson replied confidently.
Quinn chuckled as he hung up the telephone. “He says it’s Opalmeyer,” he reported to his assistant. “A clever man, our Garson. I’ll be going over there in a hour; see that my little surprise is ready.”
Chief Quinn had solved The Case of the Full-Sized Midget two days ago. F. K. Opalmeyer was already behind bars.
3
Savoring his moment of triumph, Garson himself opened the front door. “Welcome, Chief Quinn. I assume you have apprehended the perpetrator.”
“One half hour after you called,” Quinn lied with a big smile. “Congratulations, Garson. Or is it Sherlock Holmes? And Doctor Watson, I presume.”
“Hello, Chief,” Dickory said, looking around to see if the hats had been left out. They were out of sight; the chief was joking.
Garson sat down in the wing chair with a drink, but Quinn refused to join him. Casually, he toured the studio. “Out of work, I see,” he remarked, glancing at the empty easels. “And what’s this?” He stopped before one of the naked manikins. “I could have you arrested for indecent exposure, Madam, or is it Sir?” The chief certainly was in good humor.
“I gather you not only captured the jewel thief, but recovered the bracelet as well,” Garson guessed.
“Thanks to you, we certainly did.” The chief walked into the kitchen area. “Don’t bother, Hickory, I can pour my own coffee. I’ve been here too often to be treated as a guest.” At last the chief sat down. “Now, tell me how you did it.”
“Professional secret,” Garson replied coolly. “But I can tell you how Opalmeyer did it. You see, there would not have been time to break the glass, then steal the bracelet after the alarm went off. Opalmeyer had a key. When someone—probably Opalmeyer himself—shouted about the President, he unlocked the case, took out the bracelet, and locked the case again. When he smashed the glass, the bracelet was already in the envelope in his pocket.”
“Well, what do you know,” said the chief.
“Very clever of Opalmeyer,” Garson continued. “If he had been caught taking the bracelet, he would have been innocent of any crime. He was, after all, president of the company. But no one saw him. In the pretense of running after a thief, Opalmeyer dashed into the hallway, dropped the envelope into the mail slot, then gave his loud description of the nonexistent midget.”
“What was the motive, Chief?” Dickory asked. “Greed?”
“No, he wasn’t going to sell it, he says,” Quinn replied. “Something came over him and he just had to have it. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he wanted to look at it for the rest of his life. Covetousness, I’d call it.”
“That’s a fifth horseman,” Dickory said.
“So it is. All right, change it to greed. Or maybe jealousy. Never in his life’s career had he been able to design a masterpiece like that bracelet. Tell me, Garson, you’re an artist, a creator. Is jealousy reason enough to make a man steal? Or kill?”
“Kill?” Garson was surprised by the question.
The phone rang. “That’s probably for me,” the chief said, rising.
Dickory answered. It was Cookie Panzpresser in tears. Her husband didn’t like the portrait at all. In fact, he hated it and wanted it out of the house this instant. Oh dear, what was she going to do?
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Panzpresser, but Garson isn’t here right now. I’ll give him the message; I’m sure he can work something out. And Mrs. Panzpresser, Cookie, thanks again for letting me see the art collection.” Dickory hung up the phone, stamped her foot, glanced at Garson, jumped and stamped again. She smiled sheepishly at his curious look.
“Could have sworn that phone call was for me,” Quinn said, strangely unaware of Dickory’s stomping. “The Zyzyskczuk case has got the whole department at wit’s end.”
“Maybe I can help,” Garson offered.
“Yes, maybe
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