Питер Ловси - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018

If I had shoulders, I would’ve shrugged them, but since I didn’t I could only imagine myself doing so. “It might be a case I took,” I said.

If my answer surprised Julius, I couldn’t tell. He had an inscrutable poker face when he wanted to, and at that moment he showed nothing in his expression.

“I see. So you took on an investigation without informing me.”

“I’ve taken on seven, to be precise. Mostly cut-and-dry jobs that I could handle through hacking phone records and bank accounts. Three of the jobs were background checks, another was a wife hiring me to find assets that her husband had been hiding in preparation for a divorce. That type of thing.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Three weeks. I put out a virtual For Hire shingle after I warned you that your bank account was reaching an anemic level with barely the funds to last another month. I know you prefer reading wine magazines and puttering around your office to putting your brain to work, and I know you expect to use this Saturday’s big poker game to fatten up your savings, but that doesn’t always happen. In fact, I remember several times you were left in the red.”

“That’s not true, Archie, at least regarding my financial situation. I have investments I can draw on.”

Again, if I had actual eyes, I would’ve rolled them, but I could only imagine doing so. He was talking about his wine collection, which I had catalogued, since one of my many jobs for Julius is acting as his personal secretary. While it did have an impressive value, wine was also about as illiquid an investment as you could have, which was ironic given that it’s all liquid. The value was based on the price it could fetch at auction, which was further dependent on who participated and a number of other factors that were impossible to predict. If word got out that Julius was hard up for cash, that by itself could drive the price down by fifty percent or more. We both also knew that it would pain him to dispose of any of his wine, other than by drinking it, of course.

“I know you’re supremely confident about your poker abilities, as well you should be,” I said. “But what if Saturday, God forbid, you were dealt four kings against an opponent’s four aces? But now, if that were to happen, thanks to the money I’ve been making — six grand so far, and no need to thank me — you’ll still be able to dine with Lily at Le Che Cru, instead of having to take her to The Happy Pig Whistle.”

“The Happy Pig Whistle?”

“A dive I found on lower Washington Street. They’ve been known to add a fly or two to their stews for protein, but their prices are cheap, at least compared to the restaurants you typically frequent.”

Julius’s eyes glazed as he leaned further back in his chair. “Your industriousness aside, I’d like you to cease your investigative operations immediately.”

“Boss, that would be letting Grushnier push us around.”

“No, it wouldn’t. You never should have hired yourself out to begin with. In fact, I’d like you to make the necessary modifications to your programming so that you do not do this again.”

I felt an odd, suffocating feeling. It was almost like my processing cycles had ground to a halt. This lasted for 8.2 seconds, which for me was a near eternity. I had no idea what this sensation was, but I did as Julius ordered.

Julius’s eyelids lowered an eighth of an inch. He said, “Tell me about the investigations you took on.”

I gave him a rundown, saving my one open case for last. This one was more unusual than the others. Donald Prescott, owner of Boston Premiere Wines, a shop in the Fort Point neighborhood of Boston, lost a case of 1996 Lafite Rothschild that he’d been planning to auction. According to Prescott, the wine, which was worth roughly eleven grand, had been stored away in the shop’s stockroom, and could only have been stolen by one of his five employees. He hired me to discover which one was the thief. I knew this job more than the others was going to be a sore subject for Julius. A year ago he had asked Prescott to put on hold any bottles of 2002 Domaine Leroy Nuits-Saint-Georges Aux Boudots that he might come across. Three months ago, when Prescott got his mitts on four bottles of this coveted pinot noir, he instead put them up for auction, and Julius ended up being outbid. While Julius had kept his ill feelings regarding the matter to himself, he nonetheless stopped buying wine at Prescott’s store and even ignored auctions for vintages he’d been on the lookout for.

“Prescott noticed the theft five days ago and hired me the next day. I’ve been monitoring his employees’ phone, e-mail, and bank records, and so far found nothing suspicious. I’d been planning to get each on the phone later today and try to spook them and see what shakes out.”

“Not bad instincts, Archie, but unnecessary. Call Prescott and let him know that you’re withdrawing from the investigation, and return any money he paid you.”

“You’re not curious why Grushnier would bother stealing that high-priced Bordeaux? Eleven grand wouldn’t even be pocket change for him.”

“Archie, you’re making an assumption. We have nothing to link Grushnier to that theft other than a coincidence. But to answer your question, no, I’m not. I’m far more interested in what cognacs will be featured this afternoon.”

There you have it. Whether due to laziness or pique, Julius was determined to have nothing to do with Prescott’s missing wine. I called Prescott as Julius demanded and gave him the bad news. After I did this, I felt that same nearly suffocating sensation I’d felt earlier, and this time it lingered. Later that afternoon, while Julius was at the Belvedere Club sniffing from snifters of cognac, I was able to identify the sensation. Hundreds of different detective novels were used to build my knowledge base, and I decided to go back to those sources and examine the Nero Wolfe books by Rex Stout, and I only had to look at four of them before I saw my answer in black and white. The suffocating sensation that made it feel as if my processing cycles were flowing through molasses was frustration, something my namesake, Archie Goodwin, had also experienced in two of the books.

As it turned out, Julius would’ve been better off flying with Lily Rosten to Paris for the weekend and staying in a suite at the Four Seasons than going to his Saturday night poker game. It wasn’t a DEFCON level-one disaster — he still had the deed for his townhouse by the time the game broke up Sunday morning — but he left the game $8,300 poorer, which almost emptied out his bank account. I record everything I “see,” and I went back and carefully studied the poker game and there was no bottom dealing, deck stacking, or other card mechanics at work. Likewise, no noticeable tell had crept into Julius’s game, nor did he misread the other players’ tells. I further analyzed the way Julius played and I couldn’t find a single mistake. It was just one of those nights when the other players filled in their inside straights against his three of a kinds, or took three cards and would show a king-high flush against his jack-high flush. When you looked at the probabilities, Julius should’ve ended up the big winner, but every dog has their day, and that night the five other players in the game had theirs.

I didn’t say a word about the poker game the rest of Sunday. I even resisted the temptation to ask Julius whether I should change his Sunday dinner reservation with Lily from Le Che Cru to The Happy Pig Whistle. I waited Monday morning until after Julius had his morning coffee and finished reading the newspaper before e-mailing him a list of wines.

“If I have these put up for auction today, the money should be in your account by the end of the week,” I said.