Bill Crider - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 1. Whole No. 797, January 2008

And then something clicked in her memory. Mike knew that she’d been involved in several crime investigations in the past, and thought of herself as something of a detective. Maybe that’s why he’d turned to her for help.

“All right,” she heard herself say. “I’ll do it. I’ll just ask for your portfolio at the desk?”

“That’s right. I’ll call them and describe you, tell them it’s all right.”

“Look, Mike, why couldn’t one of these people you’re involved with do the same thing?”

“I can’t let them get the portfolio. It’s the only evidence I have against them.”

“If I get this thing, where’ll I bring it?”

“I’m at One Twenty-four Summit Street, but keep the portfolio hidden after you get it. Someone at the hotel can give you directions here. I’m hoping they’ll let me go without having the portfolio, but I’ll trade it for my life if I have to.”

“All right,” she told him, hoping she wouldn’t regret her decision. “I can start out in about a half-hour.”

“They’re coming back!” he said quickly, breaking the connection.

Susan expected the traffic to be fierce on Saturday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend, but most travelers must have gotten a Friday head start. Once she crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge things moved right along and she found the Big Bear Inn along the new route 86 without difficulty. The room clerk was an attractive brunette woman with pale skin and a nametag that read Rita.

“I’m here to pick up a portfolio for Mike Brentnor,” she said.

“What’s your name?”

“Susan Holt.”

Rita nodded. “He called to say you’d be coming by.” Reaching under the desk she produced a brown leatherette case of the sort artists or architects might carry.

“Thanks,” Susan said. “Can you give me directions to Summit Street?”

“Turn right at the next stoplight. That’s Summit.”

She put the portfolio in the trunk of her car, under a blanket, and tried calling Mike, but there was no answer. The address was easy to find, a gray two-story house in need of repair. She pulled in the driveway and rang the doorbell. From somewhere inside she heard Mike yelling. She tried the door and it was unlocked. Carefully opening it, she found a sparsely furnished living room. Mike was seated on the floor, handcuffed to a radiator pipe.

“My God, Mike! What happened?”

“I think someone’s been shot. The killer might still be here. Do you have your phone?”

“Right here.”

“Call nine-one-one and get the police here.”

She called as instructed and then turned to Mike. “Tell me what happened.”

“Do you have the portfolio?”

“In my car trunk.”

“Don’t mention that to the police.”

“Where’s the key to these cuffs?”

“Lam Kow has it. I came here to meet him, but there was someone in the kitchen that I never saw. Lam Kow caught me phoning you, took my cell phone, and handcuffed me to this radiator. Then he went back in the kitchen and seemed to be arguing with someone. I heard a shot, then nothing. I thought I’d be a dead man any minute, but no one came back through the kitchen door. After a few minutes I heard a thumping, as if a body was being dragged downstairs.”

Already two state police cars were pulling up in front of the house. She opened the door for them. “Are you the one who called?” a trooper asked.

“That’s me, Susan Holt.” She told them what she knew, omitting mention of the portfolio. “The killer might still be here.”

They quickly searched the house, guns drawn, and reported finding a body at the foot of the basement stairs. “I’m Corporal DeGeorgio,” one trooper said. “We found this key in the dead man’s pocket. It might fit those cuffs. The rest of the place is empty, but a back door is unlocked. This cell phone was on the kitchen table. Is it yours?”

“Yeah,” Mike told him. “He took it from me when he handcuffed me.”

The key unlocked the cuffs and Mike relaxed a little, happy to be free. His familiar lopsided grin returned. “I really got myself into a mess this time,” he told Susan. “I think you saved my life.”

Another police vehicle arrived, and two more troopers entered with cameras and crime-scene equipment. DeGeorgio directed them to the basement, then said, “We’ll need a preliminary statement from you, Mr. Brentnor.”

Mike repeated his story. “I’ve been doing some promotion work for the new racetrack and Gateway casino up here. This Chinese architect, Lam Kow Loon, is designing the racetrack part. He’s done some tracks in China and Hong Kong. Anyway, he was looking for investors to help pay for some additional features not covered in the original budget.”

“What sort of features?” DeGeorgio asked, making notes.

“I don’t know exactly. He never told me.” Mike avoided Susan’s eyes as he spoke.

“Go on. What happened here today?”

“He asked me to come up and talk over my promotion plans for the track.”

“Was he alone?”

“There was someone else in the kitchen that I didn’t see.”

“How did you happen to phone Miss Holt here?”

“He wanted me to suggest investors. I’d spoken to Susan about it earlier so I called her. Lam Kow thought I was trying to make trouble for him. He took out a gun and searched me for a weapon. Then he handcuffed my wrist to that pipe.”

She noticed he’d been careful not to mention the portfolio, which was what Lam Kow Loon must have been after. “Did you witness the shooting?” DeGeorgio asked.

“No. Lam Kow left me here and went into the kitchen to talk with this other person. I could hear the murmur of voices. Next thing I knew, there was a shot. I was really scared then. I could hear noise, probably the body being dragged down the basement stairs, then there was just silence. I didn’t know what to do because I was afraid he’d kill me next. For a long time I was afraid to do anything but keep silent. He’d taken my cell phone so I couldn’t call the police.”

The trooper nodded. “The back door was unlocked. That’s how the killer left. We found a pistol in the trash barrel, probably the murder weapon. You’d better come look at the body.”

“Do I have to?”

“He’s Asian, but we need to know whether he’s Lam Kow Loon or the other guy.”

Mike followed them down the basement stairs while Susan tentatively brought up the rear. The body was at the bottom, faceup, and the bloody steps showed it had been dragged down. Mike gasped and managed to say, “That’s him. That’s Lam Kow Loon.”

“And you don’t know the name of the other man, the one who shot him?”

“I never saw him.”

Corporal DeGeorgio nodded again and closed his notebook. “I’ll have to ask you both to give us your home addresses.”

“We’re not from here,” Susan told him. “I work for Mayfield’s Department Store in New York. Here’s my card.”

“All right. Both of you come along with me and we’ll try to get to the bottom of this.”

Susan was beginning to regret that she hadn’t stayed in New York.

It was almost evening before they were finally free of the state police, having made and signed official statements. As they walked out to their cars, the first thing Mike asked was, “Do you have the portfolio?”

“It’s in my trunk. What’s this all about?”

“Let’s go back to my hotel room and I’ll show you.”

“I don’t want to see your etchings, Mike. I only want to know what you’ve gotten yourself — and me — involved in.”

“Trust me, I’ll show you.”

Susan had already decided to spend the night at the Big Bear rather than drive back to the city so late. When they got there, Rita was still on the desk and checked her in. “You’re lucky to get a room here on a holiday weekend,” she said. “And I see you found Mike Brentnor, too.”