The Tattooed Potato and Other Clues (6 page)

Not one to take criticism lightly, Dickory quickly invented a reason for her mistake. “You are quite right, Inspector, I do have a lot to learn; but if you look carefully you will see that my color selection may be a clue to the hairdresser’s present alias. Francis Black, White, Green; why not Francis Blue, Francis Gold, Francis Brown, or Francis Gray?”

“Precisely,” Inspector Noserag replied. “I was wondering just how long it would take you to uncover that clue, Sergeant. As I always say, where there’s a crime, there’s a pattern.”

Garson was bluffing. His earlier hint of a clue had to do with the colors of the shirt and tie. “Yes, there is a pattern,” Dickory replied, “as you always say.”

Brush poised, Garson studied the manikins, puffed on his pipe, turned and studied their mirrored images, and puffed and puffed on his noxious pipe. At last he dipped the tip of his brush into the black paint and raised it to the canvas.

Dickory had her own picture of the hairdresser well-drawn in her mind, but it in no way resembled what Garson painted.

“Aha!” he exclaimed. He looked in the mirror at his finished portrait, lay down his brush, and smiled triumphantly. “Inspector Noserag has solved the case!”

Puzzled, Dickory stared at his canvas. The portrait of the horrible hairdresser consisted of one small black dot. And then the inspector said what she had known he would say sooner or later.

“Elementary, my dear Kod, elementary.”

4

Her helmet removed, Dickory was still puzzling over the black dot on the otherwise blank canvas when the chief of detectives rushed in. He was too busy today for nursery rhymes.

“I’m a very busy man, Garson. This is not my only case, you know.” Quinn refused to sit down. “What in heaven’s name couldn’t you tell me over the phone?”

Garson was in no hurry to reply. He wanted to savor his first sweet triumph as a detective. “How many ties do you own, Chief?”

Today Quinn was wearing a navy blue tie with a fine red stripe. It was a nice tie, tastefully chosen. So were his clothes, or what could be seen of them beneath the cigar ash. Dickory guessed that his wife selected his wardrobe for him.

“How should I know how many ties I own?” Quinn grumbled. “You think that’s all I have to do is count my ties? Fifteen, maybe twenty; what’s the difference? If you must know, ask my wife; she picks out my clothes.”

Pleased with her deduction, Dickory turned away to hide her smile.

“And how many police officers wear long sideburns?” Garson asked.

The chief fingered a sideburn that stopped just short of his earlobe. “These aren’t long; no longer than anybody else’s these days. You should see some of my street detectives; one of them even wears a ponytail. Why, you got a complaint about hairy cops or something?” Quinn stopped his anxious pacing before the black-dot painting and almost swallowed his cigar stub. “So this is your portrait of the perpetrator. No wonder you couldn’t describe it over the phone. What did you paint it with, invisible ink?”

“That is not a portrait,” Garson replied evenly, “it is the solution. Let me lead you step by step, clue by clue, to the indisputable result of my astounding logic.”

“Just get to the point, Garson. Do you know where to find the hairdresser, or don’t you?”

Garson sighed. “The hairdresser is either still working the con game or, having made enough money to go straight, now owns a beauty shop.”

“Brilliant.” Quinn raised his eyes to the skylight in prayer for salvation from such fools.

Ignoring the sarcasm, Garson continued. “Now, listen carefully, Chief. The perpetrator is now using a name of a different color, like Francis Brown or Francis Gray. And the mole is on the left cheek, not the right. Oh, and one more thing, if she is using her real name, Frances will be spelled with an
e
.”

“She?” both the chief and Dickory exclaimed.

“That’s right,” Garson replied. “The horrible hairdresser is a woman.”

The chief’s sudden exit brought the curtain down in the middle of Garson’s dramatic monologue. He slouched in his chair, a pose of disappointment and defeat. His hand shook.

“That was an amazing feat of deduction, Inspector Noserag,” Dickory said, placing the deerstalker hat on his head. “It may seem elementary to you, but I still don’t know how you did it.”

Garson rose, poured himself a drink, lit his pipe and, eyes twinkling, was once again transformed into the inspector. “Ah, yes, The Case of the Horrible Hairdresser,” he said meditatively. “One of my most difficult and intriguing puzzlements, and perhaps my most brilliant success. You remember, Sergeant Kod, my original misgivings about the sky-blue shirt and lavender bow tie. Those atrocious colors provided me with my first clue: each witness reported the identical attire. Now, there is something quite odd about a man who owns but one necktie. I, myself, wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a tie, unless I were applying for a bank loan or facing a jury, yet there must be twenty-five ties hanging in my closet.” He meant Garson’s closet.

“I see,” Dickory replied. “One bow tie—a woman’s disguise.”

“Precisely, Sergeant. A bow tie is hardly a proper disguise for a man. The second clue was the hair: crew cut / very short / just short. The hairdresser’s hair was growing, no disguise there, but why would a man in this day and age, especially a man in that profession, wear his hair so unfashionably short? My deduction: because long hair would look ridiculous with no sideburns.”

“Maybe he went bald trying out his own formula,” Dickory offered, “and his hair was just growing in again.”

“I thought of that, Sergeant Kod, and it is very likely the case. But if he were a man he would have worn a wig until his hair grew back. After all, he would not have lost his facial hair.”

“Skin disease?” Dickory guessed weakly.

Noserag shook his head. “Skin: smooth, creamy. No, my con man is a con woman who, naturally enough, could not grow a beard, and hence, could not grow sideburns.”

“Very good, Inspector.”

Inspector Noserag blew a smoke ring before continuing. “The third clue was the perfect manicure. Never, in my long and illustrious career of investigating human foibles, have I heard of a male manicurist. Have you?”

Dickory sat on her hands to hide their ragged cuticles. “No.”

“One bow tie, no sideburns, perfect manicures. I had no doubt, no doubt whatever, that I was dealing with a dashingly clever and dangerous woman. Eureka, I said to myself....”

“What about the mole?” Dickory was tiring of the ham acting. “All three widows agreed that the mole was on Frances’ right cheek, but you said left cheek.”

“And so I did, so I did. I immediately rejected the notion that the mole was anything but real. Not only was it raised, but it is a most difficult feat of disguise to paste a mole always in exactly the same spot. As for being on the right cheek, come with me, Sergeant.”

Noserag removed the manikin in the housedress and placed Dickory in the chair before the mirror. “Now tell me, Sergeant Kod, on what cheek is the mole?”

For the first time Dickory noticed that Garson had painted a black spot, not only on his canvas, but on the face of the hairdresser dummy. “On the right cheek,” she said, looking into the mirror. Then she turned to the wooden Frances behind her. “I mean the left cheek.” She, too, had been confused by the mirror’s reversed image. “Brilliant, Inspector Noserag.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Kod.”

? ? ?

The Case of the Face on the Five-Dollar Bill

1

Dickory had fallen in love with the paintings of Piero della Francesca; even more, she had fallen in love with herself as one of his haunted angels. Unlike the usual flying Kewpie dolls, Piero’s angels stood tall in a calm and noble beauty. Feet planted solidly on earth, their eyes stared dreamily upon unimaginable visions of heaven.

Only the blind man seemed unaware of the wingless angel that floated into Cobble Lane that afternoon. Head held high, eyes focused on inward beauty, Dickory entered the house oblivious to the sodden sins of the sprawling drunk on the stoop and the fleshy excess of Manny Mallomar. Had Shrimps been in the hall at that moment, he would have been crunched under the tread of the visiting angel whose one mighty stride could rid the world of all pestilence and vermin forever.

“Hey, brat. No more asking my visitors’ names, you hear?” Mallomar yelled from his doorway. “Did you hear me, you lousy snoop?”

She did not hear. The angel wafted up the stairs, ears sealed to secular profanities.

“Have you heard anything I said, Dickory?” Garson asked, having explained the workings of the slide projector to his glassy-eyed apprentice for the second time. “You’re not on drugs, are you?”

“No,” she replied dreamily.

“Then answer the front door. The bell has rung twice already.”

It was impossible to be an unearthly angel face-to-face with an earthly jellybean like Mrs. Julius B. Panzpresser.

“Just call me Cookie,” she said, bursting with cheerfulness right out of the seams of her shocking-pink pants suit. “And what is your name, pretty one?”

“Dick. . . .” She stopped short. If ever Dickory had seen a nursery-rhyme spouter, this was she.

“Dick?” Cookie Panzpresser exclaimed. “How very unusual; but it’s better than Kimberly; everybody I know has a grandchild named Kimberly; never even heard that name when I was growing up; I have six myself, not Kimberlys, grandchildren: there’s Susie, she’s the oldest, then there’s Jason and. . . .”

Manny Mallomar was so bored he closed his door.

“The studio is upstairs, Mrs. Panzpresser,” Dickory said after the list of grandchildren was completed.

“Cookie. Everyone calls me Cookie.” Cookie jogged up the stairs, her bleached-blonde hair becoming more tousled with each plump bounce. At the top she leaned against the door frame, panting. Garson, wearing his blue silk turtleneck and dirty jeans, led his client to the wing chair.

“The years are catching up with little Cookie.” She gasped, plopped down, and fanned herself with his mail.

“You don’t look a day over thirty-five,” Garson said, his voice dripping with charm.

“None of that, you big fraud,” Cookie replied. “If you’re going to lie, lie with your paintbrush, not with your mouth.” Her remark was delivered with such good humor that Garson let her prattle on while he searched her face for the lost youthfulness he would restore in her portrait.

“Did you have a chance to meet the Big Cigar at my dinner party the other night? That’s what I call him; his real name is Chief of Detectives Joe Quinn. Julius, that’s my husband, asked him to help find a missing artist.”

“Who’s missing?” Dickory asked.

“Edward Sonnenblum, or something like that. There’s only one painting by him in the whole world—Julius owns that one, but he wants another one. Julius has had a private detective looking for the artist for years, but he quit.”

“Now about your portrait, Cookie,” Garson said abruptly.

“Oh, yes, my portrait. It’s for Julius, for his birthday, to add to his collection, you know. It’s going to be a surprise.”

Dickory pictured the art collector’s surprise at receiving a Garson painting. Horror was a better word. But Garson reacted as though his paintings did, indeed, belong among the greats. “A splendid idea, Cookie; and you will be a splendid subject. I don’t have any portraits to show you, you understand—they are all in their happy owners’ hands—but I can show you slides to give you an idea of pose and dress. My assistant, Ms. Dock, will. . . .”

“Dock? I thought she said ‘Dick.’ ”

There was no way out of it. “Dickory Dock,” said Dickory Dock.

“Dickory Dock? How cheerful,” Mrs. Panzpresser exclaimed. “Let’s see, now, how does that go?

“Hickory Dickory Dock,
The mouse ran up the clock,
The clock struck one,
And down he come. . . .

“One—come; that doesn’t rhyme, does it?”

Garson quickly drew the blinds and raised the screen. Dickory turned on the slide projector and read from a list of sitters’ names with each corresponding click. Cookie Panzpresser oohed and aahed and burbled about how much younger and handsomer her friends looked in their portraits.

“Mrs. Juanita Chiquita Dobson,” Dickory read.

“Next!” Garson shouted, and she clicked to the next slide before Cookie had a chance to study the banana heiress’ portrait.

“That was one of my first attempts and not up to my standards,” Garson explained. “Now, here is my most recent painting; I think you are acquainted with my lawyer.”

“That’s too good for the old slob,” Mrs. Julius B. Panzpresser remarked, but when the next slide flashed she cheered. “That’s what I want my picture to look like. That’s just how Julius would like me to look, like a lady pouring tea.”

Cookie wanted Garson to begin her portrait right away, but she had to juggle club dates and charity functions to find time for the preliminary sitting. “Ta-ta, everybody,” she sang, bouncing down the stairs. “I’ve got to run and get my hair done for tonight’s benefit.”

“One minute, Cookie,” Garson called after her. “Your hairdresser’s name isn’t Francis, is it?”

“No, Antoine. Why?”

“Nothing. Have a nice evening.”

2

Dickory left with a shopping bag full of half-used tubes of oil paint left over from the lawyer’s portrait, four slightly frayed brushes, and the large, stretched canvas with the small black dot. “Get rid of them for me,” Garson had said.

Arms loaded with bounty, Dickory could barely maneuver through the front door, especially with Shrimps Marinara trying to enter at the same time.

“Out of my way, punk,” he growled when the canvas brushed against his drooping overcoat.

Shrimps did not like to be touched.

No matter, neither did the Piero della Francesca angel.

“What a stink,” her brother complained. He was stretched out on the living room sofa (Dickory’s bed) , watching television. “Somebody open a window.”

Dickory swished her paintbrush in the offensive turpentine, opened a window, and returned to her painting.