A Case Closed

 

It was a hot muggy Saturday night, and I was trying my best to stay cool in my cramped little office on the third floor. I had the windows open and could hear the sounds drifting up from the street below over the whoosh of my desk fan doing its damnedest to move the stale air around my office.

The light from the hall shone through the opaque glass of my office door, making weird shadows on my desk top. If I concentrated, I could make out what they spelled in reverse: Dirk Smythe, Private Investigator.

I was on my fourth shot of whiskey, trying to wrap my brain around my latest case, a missing person. Well, a missing dame really. I had been looking for her for over a week now and my client wanted answers, but I had none. Oh I had a lot of leads all right, but none of them made any sense, yet. I downed the whiskey and went to pour another, loosening my tie as I did so.

A shadow fell over my desk and there was a knock on the door. I looked up to see the hazy outline of a woman on the glass. I wondered who could be calling on me at such a late hour on a Saturday.

“Come in!” I called.

The door opened and in walked the classiest dame I’d ever seen. She had curves in all the right places and knew how to walk so she showed them off. She was wearing a tight silk number and one of those little hats tipped just so on her head. From her high heels to her cigarette holder to her clutch purse she screamed money.

“Are you Dirk Smythe?” she asked in hushed and husky voice.

“Yeah, who wants to know?” I said, playing it cool.

“I think I might be able to help you with a case you are working on,” she said. “May I sit?”

“Be my guest.”

She melted into the chair like she was made of honey and hot wax. I had to get a grip, this might be important.

“So, what’s this about?”

“I know you are looking for a friend of mine, Vicky.”

Indeed I was, that’s the dame I had been looking for.

“Yeah, and?”

“Well, I think I might be able to help you with that,” she purred.

“How so?”

“Pour a girl a drink?” She motioned to the bottle of whiskey with her cigarette in its holder.

“Sure.”

I rummaged around in my desk for another glass and poured us each a shot. I slid hers over to her.

“Cheers,” she said, and fired it back. I did the same.

“So,” I said, “about Vicky?”

“My, my, we are impatient, aren’t we?” she said, crossing her long curvy legs. I had to stop staring and keep on topic here. I needed a break in this case.

“Look lady, either you’ve got something for me, or you don’t. We’ve had a drink now so let’s get down to business. What’s your name anyway?”

“Does it matter?” she asked.

“Yeah, in case I need to find you for something later.”

“Oh, you won’t need to find me later. I guarantee it.”

OK, I thought, that was an odd thing to say.

“So you said you were a friend of Vicky’s?” I prompted.

“Yes,” she said simply.

I waited. She didn’t say anything else. I was becoming annoyed with this extremely attractive woman.

“Well, what have you got for me?” I asked.

“This!” she exclaimed.

She pulled her right hand up from where it had been laying in her lap by her purse. She was holding a .38 Special.

Maybe it was the five shots of whiskey. Maybe I was off my guard ‘cause she was a good looking dame. It really doesn’t matter. Either way, she had me.

Five shots rang out. I felt the five bullets hit my chest and stomach. I slowly slid to the floor.

She put the gun back in her clutch purse and said “Vicky doesn’t want to be found.”

She left me there, bleeding out.

As I listened to the sounds from the street below and the whoosh of the fan things started to go black and I thought to myself, now I’ll never know what happened to Victoria Day.

End.

 

Note: Every week we choose from four topics to write about. This week one of the topics was “What happened to Victoria Day” and I choose that. For my U.S. and overseas friends, Victoria Day is a Holiday here in Canada in May which is hardly ever referred to as Victoria Day anymore but just as “the May long weekend”.

Your comments and creative criticism are more than welcome.

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