Jon Breen: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 114, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 697 & 698, September/October 1999

The officer had notified INS immediately, and then the station had emptied of all but two people — one to handle the phone and radio, the other to “make sure the lady doesn’t leave.”

The station had a glass front, and outside a narrow deck ran around three sides of the structure. Callie went out and leaned on the deck rail, her guard following discreetly. She took the phone out of her backpack and punched in Bette Wylie’s number.

Bette was furious at being awakened at four in the morning; Captain Jack wasn’t home yet, then. Callie cut through the complaints with an urgency that Bette reluctantly responded to. The Chinese couple were named John and Nancy Ling, and they lived at 1042 Jumonville Street, apartment 404.

Callie broke the connection and called police headquarters. This time she said that a jade-seller named John Ling of such-and-such an address had killed Hal Stanwyck, that he did so on the orders of a man named Heinrich Eisler, who was even now being arrested by the harbor patrol aboard the Sofia , and that they’d better shake a leg if they wanted to get in on the bust. When she said she was with the Bass Agency and was calling from the harbor patrol station, they listened.

Callie stood for a moment holding the phone. Harbor patrol, the Immigration people, regular city police — was that enough witnesses to Kevin Craig’s foolishness? The big brave private detective who needed the resources of three law-enforcement agencies to rescue him? Would that embarrass Mr. I-Am-God Bass enough?

Nah. Callie called Information and got the numbers of Port Wolfe’s two big daily newspapers and three of its television stations. Only when those calls were done did she make the call she should have made first.

“Bass Agency, Gene Maxwell speaking.”

“Gene, this is Callie. I—”

“Callie! The harbor patrol just called about you.”

“I know, I know. Listen, grab a pencil. I have got a lot to tell you.”

“Mr. Bass tells me I’m to give you a raise,” said Elinor Sykes.

Callie wasn’t expecting that. “No shit!”

The other woman’s face was blank. “No shit,” she replied drily. “He says the kind of publicity you got the agency last night couldn’t be bought with love nor money.”

“He’s not pissed off?”

“On the contrary, he’s well pleased.” She looked at Callie curiously. “Did you really jump off that freighter into the bay?”

“Yeah, well, it beat the alternative.”

Elinor shook her head in amazement. “Mr. Bass also told me to say that was a smart move... going after his weakest link.”

Callie grinned. “How’s Kevin doing?”

“He’ll recover. Those thugs on the Sofia gave him a pretty rough going-over, but nothing was hurt that won’t heal. In time.”

“No more than he deserves,” Callie said cheerfully.

Elinor frowned. “Are you really that callous?” She took a deep breath. “Mr. Bass further instructed me to say that even though it was a smart move on your part, it didn’t work. Kevin is going to come out of this a hero. He’s going to be a media darling. The noon news has already done one awestruck piece about him. One man by himself, taking on the baddies all alone—”

“He wasn’t alone!”

A sigh. “I’m to say two words to you. I don’t know what they mean. Mail clerk.”

Callie sucked in her breath; she knew what they meant, all right. If her name was plastered all over the papers, her parole officer would want to know what a mail clerk was doing boarding freighters in the middle of the night. “Damn!” After all she went through last night, that bitty-brain Kevin was going to get the credit? She stood up angrily. “Dammit to hell!”

“Please don’t shout. He said you’d take it badly.”

Damn, damn, damn! Callie walked aimlessly in a circle, flapping her arms. She had never felt more frustrated.

“But Mr. Bass understands what you did,” Elinor Sykes went on, “and you won’t find him ungrateful. He’s already squared things with the harbor patrol, and he suggests you take some time off. With pay, of course.”

“Afraid I’ll talk?” Callie snapped.

“He’s just trying to make it up to you.”

Like hell he was, Mr. Goddam-Paternalistic Bass. He was rubbing her nose in it. She grabbed her backpack off the floor and headed for the door.

“Callie, a word of advice,” Elinor Sykes said kindly. “Don’t lock horns with Mr. Bass. He always wins. Always.”

“Nobody always wins.”

“Mr. Bass does. He won this time, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Callie admitted, opening the office door. “This time.”

She slammed the door behind her.