An Eye for Detail

This story begins like any other; a drop-dead gorgeous dame walking into my office. She knocked on my door, the faded text of Jack Oswald, Private Investigator visible through the glass. Putting down my glass of bourbon, I shouted out an instruction. In she walked, with legs up to here and a story out to there. Murder, she said. Murder.

A man was found face down in the gutter with more lead in him than a church roof. Lee Brisket was his name. It sounded familiar; I just couldn’t place where. The girl dropped a folder on my desk of all the evidence she found herself. I asked for her name. She replied curtly: Anne. Not a lot to go on. I pressed further. She gave me her second name: Brisket. Figures. What kinda lousy alcoholic PI was I if I couldn’t spot a wedding ring and a veil only a widow would wear? She dropped something else on my desk. A big wad of cash.

I counted it quickly. There must have been 300 Alexander Hamiltons. I told her there was 3,000 bucks in the envelope. She commended me for my quick mathematical skills. Always was one for maths in school, but it’s a damn shame it doesn’t matter how fast your counting is when a Kraut is running full speed at you, Gewehr pointed bayonet side up, with a cry of “Gott Mit Uns!” We won the war, but I lost my eye. My good eye. My favourite eye. Now all I got was a medal and an eyepatch.

She left my office soon thereafter, with a tear in her eye and a sway in her hips. Something felt fishy about this whole case, and it wasn’t the capers I had for lunch. I flicked through the folder Anne gave me. The man, Lee, was a seemingly upstanding member of society; worked in an insurance company, volunteered at the baseball club, hell, he even gave generously at church collections. I decided to look into the insurance gig he had going. Donning my overcoat and fedora, as well as slipping my Colt 1911 into its shoulder holster, I ventured out into the streets of Philadelphia, or, as the locals called it, Philadelphia.

The Wizard’s Quest

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‘The never-ending question: Are you a boy or a girl?’

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‘I’m 16 years old, raised on the Barn of the Crumlin Road’

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The hustle and bustle of the city seemed to be up to the usual standard. Rampant geopolitical turmoil tends to do that. I slowly made my way to the insurance company of the late Lee Brisket. Narrowly avoiding the taxis that screeched through the streets, I reached my destination. The looming fortress of Securo Ltd loomed over me, dominating the surrounding skyline. I entered through the doors and made my way to the receptionist.

The office

The girl had a worried look in her eye as I explained my reason for inspecting Brisket’s office. I thought that maybe I was getting over my head, but 3,000 Delaware-Crossers was too much to turn down. The receptionist was a short woman, with a limping arm, and a crooked finger on the same hand, probably owing itself to too many hours at the typewriter. After a few minutes waiting, she finally gave me Brisket’s office number. I thanked the doll and was on my way.

Lee’s office was no different from any other. A desk, some windows, posters of famous starlets from some of the swing bars in town, a crucifix and a framed picture of the widowed Mrs Anne Brisket. Curiously, next to that was a portrait of the man in his marines uniform. I read the back of the frame. Turned out he had fought in the Argonne, the same forest where my eye tried to fight 12 inches of German steel. No wonder his name was familiar.

I began looking through the dead man’s files. He seemed to specialise in life insurance. I flicked through his folders, before a name caught my eye: Fabio Stallone. The man was the biggest Mafia boss in Philadelphia. The man had more power than Il Duce. And here he was, right in the deceased Lee Brisket’s desk. I was definitely in over my head.

I decided to keep flicking. I then saw Lee’s own folder. Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened it up. That’s where the kicker was: the beneficiary wasn’t Anne Brisket, and that right there is a motive. The name, however, did seem familiar. Margot Audier. A strange name, but this was a strange city.

Riddled with bullets

My situation was not good. I had a dead man, riddled with dozens of bullets, and my only strong suspect was the most dangerous man on the East Coast. I looked around the room some more, eyeing a bottle of whiskey hidden haphazardly behind a plant. I couldn’t stop myself and took a deep swig. The fire burning through me reminded me what it was like to feel for a change. I made my way downstairs, back to the lobby. It was there, in the waiting area that I saw him. Fabio Stallone.

I casually made my way up to him, asking how he had been. He recognised me and greeted me like an old friend. Mr Stallone turned out to be a strong supporter of the Veterans, having lost a son in the war. Having lost my eye, I could relate. It was like a son to me. It was through this conversation that I could cross his name off my list. There was no way Stallone would kill a veteran, no matter how bad Lee could have crossed him. God bless the Italian’s tax-avoiding soul.

Although I was relieved not to antagonise Stallone, I was distraught to have to lose the one suspect I had. I lit up a cigar, and gazed out into the street, trying to clear my head. The sound of jazz clubs drifted through the air, George Gershwin’s melodies soothing my nerves. I couldn’t piece together the case.

Who would kill an ex-army insurance broker? I thought of Anne. She wasn’t on the insurance. Could she be the killer? But it didn’t add up. Lee’s life insurance was only slightly more than what Mrs Brisket was paying me to find the culprit. If she really did gun him down, she would only be gaining a few hundred dollars. Would that be enough to kill a spouse? I began to exit the building, when the receptionist timidly reminded me I had to sign out. I returned to her desk and signed my name. Then I saw it, and I froze.

Valid suspect

Sitting next to the registration book was a name plaque. Carved into the wood read Margot Audier. Just like when Anne had walked into my office, I had missed it. The lighter ring of skin on her finger. The telltale mark of a missing wedding ring; the ending of a longstanding marriage. Anne Brisket wasn’t on the insurance because she wasn’t Lee’s first wife. It was Margot Audier. It all made sense. Lee was a Catholic; the crucifix in his office was a telltale sign. Lee gave so much at church because he felt guilt for his divorce, as any good Catholic would. Finally, I had a valid suspect, with a valid motive.

In one swift motion, I drew the Colt and pointed the barrel straight at Margot.

“So, Margot, why’d you blast him?” I shouted at her.

“I… I.. what?” she stuttered.

“Lee Brisket. You gunned him down with a damn Tommy Gun!”

“I don’t know what you’re...”

“Can it, bird! You know damn well what I’m talking about!”

“Oh alright!” She snarled, her tone changing dramatically. “So, I did it. But can you blame me? That two-timing son of a gun, why he... he... he ran off with Anne, with that harlot! He left me with nothing. Nothing! That insurance money would have set me up for years, and I got to have the pleasure of getting to put down that cheating dirtbag. Do you know how it feels to have something so dear to you, so fundamental to who you are, torn away without anything to do about it, sir?”

I rubbed my eyepatch mournfully.

“All too well, Margot. All too well.”

“But I decided to not be a victim. As they say, if you’re going through hell, keep going,” she continued.

“Who says that?” I asked, perplexed.

“Well, they do,” she replied.

“Who are they?” I pressed. I needed to get to the bottom of this conundrum.

“Them!”

“Forget this witty banter, you killed your ex-husband in cold blood!”

“I did. And I would’ve gotten away with it if I only knew how to use the blasted gun!” she cried.

I smiled.

“This is how you use a gun,” I remarked softy, before pulling the trigger, hitting the murderer right between the eyes.