The Case of the Accursed Amulet Part One

THE CASE OF THE ACCURSED AMULET

A Phantom Sleuth Adventure

First published in Apeshit!, 2013

Part One

The heavy summer night smothered Stockport like a blanket.  The oppressive heat of afternoon lingered in the close confines of the city and showed no intent of leaving.  Some small relief came in a sea breeze from somewhere out on the ocean, but even this wind seemed reluctant to run through the streets. 

Despite the refreshing sea air, the waterfront still suffered from stifling temperatures.  Nevertheless, a mysterious figure skulked the docks clad in a dark trench coat and wide-brimmed hat.  The coloring of his costume allowed him to blend almost perfectly with the deep shadows, unseen by dockhands, sailors, and other denizens of the nighttime wharfs.

Ignoring these potential distractions, the Sleuth exercised his enviable patience, waiting for the object of his mission.  It arrived at eight minutes past midnight, when the S.S. Gertrude Burrows pulled into port, ending its long trip from Africa.  Through a sweat-soaked mask the Sleuth watched it dock, and knew it was time to learn the validity of his tip-off.

* * *

The Gertrude Burrows was a sturdy freighter, finished only a few short months before the invasion of Poland.  Thanks to the war contracts won by the Burrows Shipping Line, it was chiefly employed to transport precious supplies to the Allied war machine.  As such, the cavernous cargo hold was all but empty on the return voyage, much to the Sleuth's chagrin.  According to his information, something was going to be stolen off this boat tonight.  Alas, he lacked further details.

Undaunted, the Sleuth turned away from the open hatches and traversed the main deck.  He made up his mind to locate the records room, where he expected to find a cargo manifest among the ship's logs.  

The Sleuth made it to the shadows beside the mast-house without being spotted by any of the crew.  He was casing an opportunity to bolt unseen to the bridge castle when his keen ears detected a muffled moan and a soft thump.  The Sleuth peered around the corner of the mast-house and spied a sailor laying prone on the narrow walkway between the two open cargo hatches.

With haste, the Sleuth ran to the victim, dropped to one knee, and pressed two fingers against the man's neck in search of a pulse.  He sighed in relief as he felt the rhythmic throb of pumping blood.  The sailor moaned and stirred.  With a start, the Sleuth reached into his trench coat and pulled out his disguise kit. 

The kit was a shiny silver flip-top box, like an oversized cigarette case.  He flipped the lid open, plucked out a random mustache and pressed it onto his upper lip.  The Sleuth then ripped the mask from his face, and thrust it and the kit back into his coat as the sailor's eyes flickered open.

The Sleuth smiled, reached out to assist the man to his feet.  "There now, you'll be all right in a mo..."

The sailor's fist shot out, caught the Sleuth squarely on the chin, knocked him off his feet.  "So!  Troyin' t'get the jump on me, are ya?"

The Sleuth frowned in astonishment as the sailor jumped up from the deck and balled up his fists for a fight.  He was young, not very tall, but blessed with beefy arms that packed a wallop.  The Sleuth scrabbled to his feet, held one hand out in a calming gesture as he thrust his other hand into one of his pockets.  "Wait!  You don't understand..."

The sailor advanced behind a ready pair of fists.  "Sure then you'd best be makin' me understand, afore I give ya a damn good thrashin'!  Who are you?  What's yer business aboard this here ship?"

The Sleuth drew the badge from his coat pocket and held it out before him.  "Saunders, War Department!" 

The sailor froze in place and stared with wide eyes.  Then he unclenched his fists and fidgeted with embarrassment as he stammered, "Beggin' yer pardon, sir!  Ya must understand, to awake after bein' kayoed like that, an' seein' a stranger on deck..."

"I understand perfectly," the Sleuth replied with a kind smile.  Then the grin vanished, leaving only the usual steely stare.  "What's your name sailor, and what happened here?"

The sailor, still wide-eyed, stood up straight, brought one hand to his temple in salute.  "Deck hand Mike Flaherty!"  He slumped where he stood, frowned away for a moment.  "Sure and the truth is that I'm not rightly certain what happened.  One moment I'm openin' the hatches to the cargo hold, next thing I know I wake up with a bump on me noggin and you hoverin' over me."

The Sleuth placed a hand on Flaherty's shoulder.  "You didn't see who attacked you?"

"No sir."

The Sleuth ran his gaze across the ship's deck, spied nothing amiss.  "Listen carefully, Flaherty.  My people have obtained information that this ship has been targeted for a robbery tonight.  My guess is that the guy who clobbered you is my thief.  So I need a list of the cargo you're carrying so we can identify his target and nab him!"

"That's impossible!" the deck hand replied, rubbing the lump on his head.  "After we drop off our shipment, we always return home empty.  There is no cargo on board."  A thought flashed through his mind and his face turned toward the bridge castle.  "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Mr. Wilson, he's the mate, he went ashore and brought back a small package which he kept in his cabin," Flaherty told.

"What was it?" the Sleuth pressed him.

The sailor shrugged.  "I assumed it was some souvenir for his family."

The Sleuth snorted.  "It could be intelligence vital to the war effort!"

"No!" Flaherty gasped.  "Mr. Wilson's no spy!  He can't be!"

The Sleuth narrowed his eyes.  "We'd better make sure of that.  Take me to him."

* * *

The sailor guided the Sleuth through the ship to the officers' quarters.  "This is it, Mr. Saunders."  With a curt thanks, the Sleuth rapped on the door.  A few seconds went by with no response, and he knocked again.  Flaherty shrugged.  "Could be that he's up on the bridge.  Come along, I'll take ya straight there," he said as he started down the corridor, waving for the Sleuth to follow.

The Sleuth took a single step before he heard the thump beyond the door.  "What was that?" he asked as his hand flew to the handle.  He found the portal unlocked, and flung the door wide. 

The mate's cabin was a fifteen-by-ten box with modest furnishings and in the middle of it all two men were caught in a dance of death.  The victim, blond haired and blue eyed, was dressed in a typical naval uniform:  a blue blazer and slacks over a white turtleneck.  In manic desperation, he clawed at his throat.  The garrote was pulled tight by the strong hands of the Chinaman behind him, who looked like something out of a nightmare in his black cap and changshan.  Surprise was in his murderous eyes as they flashed to the open door, and he yanked on his wire with renewed effort.

The Sleuth charged into the cabin, threw one fist into the Chinaman's ribs.  The pain raced through the villain and his grip on the garrote loosened until Wilson pulled free, gasping for precious air. 

"Mr. Wilson!" Flaherty exclaimed from the doorway. 

The Sleuth swung his fist again, but the Chinaman blocked and threw a punch of his own.  The Sleuth crashed onto the bunk, and Flaherty ran in to replace him.  One hit to his gut and another to his jaw sent the deckhand crumbling to the cabin floor.  The Chinaman snatched a small package wrapped in brown paper from the table below the porthole even as Wilson, still massaging his tender throat with one hand, pulled a gun from his dresser drawer.  Almost as though expecting it, the Chinaman grabbed a book from the table and flung it at Wilson as he whipped around.

The book collided with the gun barrel, knocking it aside as it fired.  The wild shot hit the lamp, plunging the cabin into darkness with a short rain of glass.  Undaunted, the Chinaman bolted for the lighted hallway, slamming the door shut behind him.

"He's getting away!" the Sleuth cried as he jumped over Flaherty and rushed for the door.  He burst into the hall, checked both directions and spied the Chinaman's long, braided queue vanish around a corner and charged in pursuit. 

The Sleuth chased the clanging footsteps up a stairwell, the two sailors trailing in his wake.  The Chinaman, package in hand, bolted across the open deck on course for the aft guard rail and the open ocean beyond.  Without pause, the Sleuth ran after him, Flaherty at his heels.  Wilson stepped to the side, raised his pistol and croaked out the fair warning, “Halt or I fire!”

Ignoring the alert, the Chinaman leapt for the rail and the gun in Wilson’s hand barked a vicious thundercrack.  The Chinaman, still clutching the topmost rail, fell over the barrier and dangled above the churning waters below.  Breathless, the Sleuth braced himself against the railing and clutched at the assassin with desperate fingers.  The killer looked up at him, his mouth trembling as though he struggled to speak.  Instead, he released the rail and fell into the water, leaving only the package in the Sleuth’s hands.

The Sleuth frowned down at the watery grave, but the killer’s body never floated to the surface.  There was no smaller craft nearby, no convenient getaway boat in sight.  Wilson and Flaherty joined him at the rail as other sailors arrived, ready for trouble, attracted by the gunshot. 

“I don’t know who you are,” Wilson rasped, “but I thank you for showing up when you did.  A moment later, and I would’ve been done for.”

Flaherty jabbed one thumb toward the Sleuth and said, “This here’s a Mr. Saunders, come down from the war department…”

“That’s right,” the Sleuth interrupted.  “I’ll have to ask you what you’ve got in this package, and who wants it bad enough to kill you for it.”

Wilson didn’t hesitate.  “I don’t know, exactly.  Some sort of antique, jewelry I think.  I was merely bringing it Stateside at the request of Montgomery Fisk.”

The Sleuth’s eyes widened.  “Montgomery Fisk?  The industrialist?”

“The same.  You see, my father was Mr. Fisk’s butler since…before I was born until his death last year.  Mr. Fisk liked children, and doted on those of his servants just as much as his own.  In fact, I believe he offered me every opportunity that he provided for his own son.  So when he asked me to meet up with his man, pick up a package and bring it home, I could hardly refuse.  He said it was some valuable antique and that he needed someone he could trust, I assured him he could rely upon me.”

“Have you any idea who may be after it?” the Sleuth persisted.

“No, not specifically,” Wilson replied.  “But if it’s some valuable artifact, I expect any number of thieves would be interested in it.  I’ve never even opened the package, so all I know is what I was told when I picked it up.  It was implied to be a piece of jewelry, and there was some nonsense about a curse.”

The deck hand snorted and poked his elbow into the Sleuth’s ribs.  “Hardly sounds like war secrets, eh Mr. Saunders?”

The Sleuth regarded the package with disappointment in his eyes.  “No, no it doesn’t.”  A feeling in his gut told him there was more to the mystery, but that he could not dig deeper in his current identity.  Hiding his regret, he held the package out to the first mate.  “Well, I guess this is out of my department.  Here you go, Mr. Wilson, sorry for the questions.”

“Not at all,” the mate replied as he took the box in his hands.

“However, there has been one attempt on your life,” the Sleuth continued, “if you’d like I could make a few calls, get a man assigned to help you guard that until you get it to Fisk.”

Wilson smiled in gratitude.  “That shouldn’t be necessary.  He’s expecting me first thing in the morning.  Besides, I have a whole boatload of trustworthy men to stand guard for me.  All I have to do is ask.”

“Sure and that’s right!” Flaherty exclaimed, punching the air for emphasis.  “In fact, ya don’t even have to ask!  Oy’ll stand watch over ya tonight, Mr. Wilson.  Rest assured that nobody will get past me, now that I know to be lookin’ for ‘em!”  He was not the only volunteer.

To Be Continued...