The Thief Takes a Powdered
By Don Weston
It was a typical day in the rainy city, otherwise known as
Puddles covered the linoleum floor of my office, but warmer temperatures prevailed. The wind was replaced with a sweet perfume concocted by my landlord and receptionist, Evelyn Claire. I call her “E” for short. E is a tall, burly dishwater blonde with sticky fingers, but I’m willing to overlook this fault because she works cheap.
The morning rain had brought me a new client. She sat at my desk, sipping coffee and nibbled a treat supplied by E. I watched the lanky brunette, with mascara running down her eyes and chocolate frosting on the edge of her mouth, and realized she was sizing me up.
Clients tend to do this when they visit my office. I get wide-eyed stares of incredulity, as if they had never seen a real-life shamus before. First she looked at my meticulously combed black hair, then at my steel blue eyes, finally fixing on my pencil mustache. Her gaze rested on my aged leisure suit.
Dana Fleming tapped her manicured fingernails on the marbled Formica desktop.
“Are you sure you’re a private investigator, Mr. Barr?” she asked. “I’ve heard you guys have run-down offices, but I never expected anything like this.”
I looked around at the remnants of a more prodigious era and sighed.
“Call me Mac. Look, I know it’s not the Taj Mahal, but my expenses are astronomical. Uh, by the way, could you leave a tip for E on the way out of my office?”
“You want me to tip your secretary?” Mrs. Fleming said. “For what?”
I was dubious. “She did bring you the donuts.”
“That’s her job!” the pouty client said.
“Well, as you can see, she’s really a jack-of-all trades. She handles phones, takes messages and deals with characters off the street. She barely makes more than minimum wage — so every little bit helps,” I said.
“Why don’t YOU pay her more?”
“I would if I could afford it, but as you can see we’re relegated to this arrangement. She helps me and I help her. We’re a small business here.”
She surveyed my office in a sweeping motion and returned to me with glazed eyes.
“I know, but this is insane.”
“Can we get off your petty preoccupation with my office and discuss your case?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try.” A sardonic smile formed on her mauve lips.
Once we began discussing her problem, some of the anxiety left her doubtful face. Seems like Mrs. Fleming had lost a $20,000 necklace. It wasn’t really lost. She knew who had it — her gigolo apparently purloined it from her bedroom the last time he visited. Problem was he denied taking the necklace, which put her in the very delicate position of having to tell her hubby it was stolen. She thought of doing just that when a grave concern came over her.
“What if he uses my necklace to blackmail me?” she cried. “I could just deny his claims of my infidelity, except how would I explain how he got my necklace?”
I licked the sugar off my fingers. “I see. It could be very sticky indeed.”
I was formulating a plan in my brain when E interrupted. “Sorry, hon, I’ve got to go to the powder room. Could you watch the place for a few minutes?”
“Sure, no problem.” I watched my secretary’s long pasty legs as she left my office. “Her legs are too white. She needs to get outside more.”
“Uh huh,” Mrs. Fleming said. “Except her legs are powdered. Probably flour.”
“Oh, yeah.”
I got up from my desk for a minute to help E’s customer and returned to Mrs. Fleming.
“You don’t worry need to about this,” I said. “I’ll have a good handle on the situation by this time tomorrow. Come back at lunchtime.”
She put a buck on the corner of my desk for E and left the office shaking her head. I clutched the $200 she gave me as a retainer and went to the coat rack to retrieve my raingear as E returned from the powder room.
“Say, Mac, I got a bunch of stuff about to hit the fryer, could you stick around for a few minutes and help me with the customers?”
“Sure, E. Who’s next?” I asked, feeling the warmth associated with a new retainer.
“I’d like a sugar-coated,” said a pudgy man in a soggy brown overcoat.
“I could use one, too,” I told him.
He had given me an idea. It had worked before. I went to the phone and dialed the number Mrs. Fleming had given me.
“Mr. Iwan Moore? My name’s Mac. I’m calling on behalf of Mrs. Fleming. I want to negotiate the return of her necklace,” I said. “Yes. I’ll give you a dozen…” crash “…once a week for a year. What was that noise? Sorry, Mr. Moore, my secretary is a bit of a klutz.
“Yes, it is a pretty good deal. How can I afford it? Let’s just say I got connections. You won’t do it? There’s another bonus associated with this offer. If you accept it, I won’t send my leg-breaker over to visit you.
“You’re starting to like my offer? Then bring the necklace to my office right away. It’s on Southeast Fifth and
I hung up the phone and smiled at E.
“It’s okay. You won’t have to rough him up. Mr. Moore is taking advantage of the ‘E Claire’ special. He’s coming over right away with a necklace for us. Says he likes powdered.”
E looked at me and smiled. “I’ll put a fresh dozen in the fryer so they’ll be warm when he gets here. Then, after that?”
“That’s right. He gets the day-old donuts.”