The Eager Detective (Sleuth against Police Parody)

The Eager Detective - Restoration of an expired copyright tale

© Andre M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

Disclaimer: No warranties!

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When you see that American Keyboard — in the story, one our German keyboards do NOT have, compare: —  to - . THAT is, where AI demanded that I change my formulations for reasons of grammar & proper formulations!

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The tale unfolds in a shadowy realm, wherein Detective Trump stepped into a world forever altered by death. He entered to find Huggins sprawled lifeless, and in that moment, he recognized it as a harbinger of change—a catalyst compelling him to unravel the mystery that could catapult him to notoriety. With determination coursing through his veins, he stepped into the fray, ready to assert his presence and claim victory in the pursuit of justice.

Nestled in a refined white-stone edifice in the East Seventies, the building radiated sophistication. Trump ascended the steps with a sense of purpose, glancing back at his companion waiting in the car. They exchanged a silent acknowledgment, a mutual understanding that spoke volumes.

In his early thirties, Trump stood at five feet eight inches, his 170 pounds of lean muscle reminiscent of tempered steel. He was a private investigator, fueled by a reckless confidence that was evident in the glint of his gray eyes, the tousled light brown hair that framed his face, and the resolute set of his jaw. His thin smile was a mask of determination, hinting at the depths of his resolve.

As the door swung open, revealing a servant—a mere lackey—Trump wasted no time.

“May I see Miss Gillette?” he inquired, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

“She’s busy,” came the reply.

“Not too busy to see me,” Trump asserted firmly. “I’m coming in.”

Lackeys often straddle the line between bravery and cowardice, and this one chose the latter, stepping aside to allow Trump passage through a series of rooms that felt more at home in the mind of an artist or a wayward soul.

“Quite the establishment you have here, Miss Gillette,” he remarked, surveying the space.

She was a vision of delicate strength, small and slim, radiating an alluring grace even in her sculptor's garb. A chisel gripped in one hand and a light hammer in the other, she was immersed in her craft, the contours of her marble creation nearly complete.

As she pivoted to face him, her striking features came into view—dark brown hair framing her face, eyes shimmering with golden hazel hues, and a mouth that, while perhaps too wide, held a beauty all its own. By all appearances, she was in her late twenties.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” she demanded, her voice a blend of curiosity and defiance.

“I’m Trump, a friend of Lyle Huggins,” he stated, his expression unwavering.

“Is that so?” she replied, skepticism lacing her words. “How is Lyle?”

“He’s dead,” Trump delivered, the weight of the truth hanging heavily in the air.

Her eyes widened, the reality settling in like a stone. “What happened? When?”

“He was murdered this morning—stabbed,” he explained, his voice steady despite the gravity of the revelation.

She blinked, processing the information, before casting her gaze downward. Trump observed her, his attention momentarily drifting to a jade box that housed cigarettes. With a practiced ease, he selected one, retrieving a safety match from his vest pocket, igniting it with a flick of his fingernail.

Taking a deep drag, he continued, “I have a feeling you know more than you’re letting on, Miss Gillette.”

Her expression remained inscrutable as she replied, “You claim to be a friend of Lyle, yet you sound more like a detective.”

“Indeed,” he admitted. “Lyle and I shared a bond during our college days. He ventured into the world of insurance law while I embraced the chaotic life of a private investigator. We lost touch until last week when he reached out, asking me to observe you.”

“Is that so?” she echoed, her interest piqued.

“He must have sought a private eye and remembered me. In exchange for this favor, he promised me two hundred bucks. So you see, Miss Gillette, this isn’t personal; it’s just business.”

“Why did he want you to follow me?” she pressed, a hint of challenge in her tone.

“You already know the answer to that, Miss Gillette. In fact, I suspect you know all the answers,” he replied, his gaze steady.

She reached for a cigarette from the jade box, and Trump offered her a light, each flicker of the flame a moment suspended in time.

“What am I supposed to say?” she murmured, the weight of the situation pressing upon her.

Trump sensed the challenge she posed, aware that navigating this encounter would require finesse. 

“You don’t need to say anything just yet. I’ll draft a confession outline for you to sign. You can fill in the details if you wish. What I truly need is that signature,” he stated, resolute.

“What did you say you were?” she inquired, her tone shifting.

“A private detective,” he replied, unyielding.

“A novice, aren’t you?” The undertone of condescension stirred a flicker of irritation within him, but he quelled it.

“Perhaps, but I take my work seriously. It’s how I make my living,” he responded, the conviction in his voice clear.

She blinked, drawing a half-hearted puff from the cigarette before returning her gaze to the marble before her. “How closely did you follow me?”

“Here’s what I uncovered,” Trump began, laying out the facts with precision. “On Sunday, you attended an exhibition at the Wham Galleries on 57th Street. Following that, you had dinner at Larry’s diner with a man named Casserole. He then escorted you to a party at the Vanderbilt Hotel, where you remained for five days with your close friend, Daisy Kennedy, the jewelry designer. Together, you dined and shopped, and on the last night, you departed the hotel, slipping into the chaos of Fifth Avenue traffic. When I returned to inform Lyle, I discovered he was unreachable...”

“So that’s where your investigation ended?” she interjected, her voice steady.

“Not quite. I returned to Lyle’s apartment this morning, only to be met with the grim reality that he was beyond waking. I didn’t intend to share all of this with you; I assumed you were already aware,” he admitted, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone.

“How did you obtain my home address?” she asked, her curiosity piqued, though her demeanor remained surprisingly calm.

“The housekeeper provided it,” Trump replied, his gaze unwavering.

“You informed her—?” she began, her eyes narrowing, the tension in the room palpable.

She had chosen silence as her shield. Stepping out of the bedroom, she informed him that Mr. Huggins remained in slumber, then inquired about the address he sought. It was possible he still believed Lyle was merely sleeping, or perhaps the truth had already dawned upon him, with the police hot on the trail.

Her gaze flicked from the ceiling to the floor before settling on Trump, her voice steady as she asked, “Let me clarify: you are accusing me of murdering Lyle and requesting that I sign a confession?”

"That's precisely the situation," he replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

"You tread a dangerous path, Mr. Trump," she murmured, her words laced with concern. "I suggest you reconsider your suspicions before casting blame elsewhere. An apology to me wouldn’t diminish your pride, either."

"I’m not blaming anyone else," Trump asserted. "What are your next steps?"

She blinked, glancing at her wristwatch and then at the marble before her. "I have pressing work to complete before three-thirty this afternoon," she stated firmly. "I kindly ask that you leave."

With a graceful turn, she picked up her hammer and chisel, focusing intently on the marble, acting as if Trump had already departed.

He shrugged, stepping out into the world beyond.

Her servant followed him to the door, relaying, "Miss Gillette expects you back after three-thirty."

Trump descended the steps and slipped into his parked coupe. Turning the key in the ignition, he muttered, “No, go on!”

“What happened?” inquired the passenger, a man named Mordino. Tall and robust, with close-cropped blond hair and striking blue eyes, he exuded an air of toughness.

“She refuses to confess anything!” Trump exclaimed, steering the car around the corner with purpose.

“What’s our next move?” Mordino asked.

“Well, we could spend the afternoon lost in a film, indulging in the glitz of Hollywood starlets, or we could pay a visit to Mr. Casserole.”

Mordino shrugged, his indifference palpable.

They arrived at a new apartment building near Fenshire Heights, its elegance whispering of upper-class charm.

“Should I wait?” Mordino asked.

“Perhaps it’s best if you accompany me inside.”

They entered and rang Casserole’s number, immediately greeted with a buzz and the door swinging open. As they stepped out of the elevator, Casserole stood at the threshold, expecting them to pass by, but they approached him with purpose.

He was of average height, well-built for a man of forty-five, with a square jaw, deep-set gray eyes, and a head of dark hair flecked with silver. Clad in a long-collared silk shirt, an expensive cravat, and a luxurious lounging robe, he exuded an air of casual authority.

“Hello, Casserole,” Trump greeted.

“I beg your pardon?” Casserole replied, his demeanor unfazed.

“No need for apologies,” Trump countered sharply. “What we seek is a few straightforward answers. If you’re amenable, let’s move this conversation to a more private setting.”

“Are you implying that you are criminals?” Casserole inquired, his tone betraying neither fear nor excitement.

“No, we’re not criminals, but we prefer respectful hosts,” Mordino interjected.

Casserole stepped into the apartment, allowing Trump and Mordino to follow.

“Now, gentlemen?” he prompted.

“I’m Trump, and this is my assistant, Mr. Mordino,” Trump introduced, his gaze still fixed outside, speaking slowly as if savoring each word. “You’ve crafted a rather impressive business model, Mr. Casserole. As an expert appraiser of art, you command substantial fees from various dealers. You’ve cultivated a reputation for validating works by the likes of Rembrandt and Picasso, earning quite the kick-back in the process. It’s all very legitimate and lucrative…”

“Are you some kind of misguided art therapist?” Casserole retorted, his disdain evident.

“Quiet,” Mordino warned, his tone a low growl.

“A short while ago, you began to explore new avenues,” Trump continued, undeterred. “Your stock of antiquities wasn’t yielding the returns you desired, so you considered turning to the modern avant-garde to fill that gap.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Casserole sneered, his skepticism palpable.

“Silence!” Mordino commanded, his gaze piercing through Casserole.

“Let me break this down for you,” Trump began, his tone laced with a sharp clarity. “You gathered a select group of talented painters and sculptors—those with affluent backgrounds, whether through inheritance or dubious connections. You enticed them with the promise of elevating their work in exchange for fees. Then, you approached the dealers, presenting these artists as the next big sensation, ready to command astronomical prices. You skillfully inflated their worth, all while pocketing your share. And it worked like a charm.”

“Now hold on just a second—”

“Enough!” Mordino interjected, his voice unwavering.

“Everyone appeared content,” Trump continued, “because no one truly suffered. The artists profited, the dealers thrived, and the buyers believed they were acquiring exquisite pieces at lavish gatherings. One such buyer was Lyle Huggins, a prominent insurance attorney.”

Casserole hesitated, caught in a whirlwind of thoughts, glancing between Trump and Mordino, uncertainty clouding his expression.

“You sold Huggins several sculptures crafted by a young artist named Tess Gillette,” Trump elaborated. “He was smitten by her work and sought to meet the creator. After your introduction, he became infatuated, his admiration bordering on obsession. He proposed to her, but she found it amusing and shared this with you. You, however, perceived a threat and an opportunity for profit.”

“Now, damn you!” Casserole cursed, the weight of the accusation heavy on his tongue.

“Silence!” Mordino’s voice resonated with authority once more.

“Huggins was utterly captivated by Tess Gillette, and he purchased every sculpture she produced. This continued for over a year, during which he remained blissfully unaware that true artistry requires time and that even the best can only produce so much in a given timeframe. He never realized that you were peddling him pieces that had nothing to do with Tess. That is, until he discovered that Tess harbored feelings for you instead of him.”

“Surely, you can’t believe I—” Casserole stammered, desperation creeping into his voice.

“Quiet,” Mordino reiterated, his patience wearing thin.

“Lyle was intelligent when he chose to be, especially when fueled by anger. He investigated the artworks you sold him and uncovered the deceit. He reached out to you, threatening jail time unless you abandoned your schemes involving Tess Gillette. By then, your feelings for her had deepened, and you refused to let her go. So, you took matters into your own hands and murdered Lyle Huggins.”

“What?” Casserole’s voice trembled, shock rippling through him.

“I said, you murdered Lyle Huggins,” Trump reiterated, his gaze unwavering.

Casserole stared down at the lavender carpet, his mind racing. Finally, he lifted his gaze and whispered, “Is Lyle truly gone?”

Trump retrieved a match from his pocket, flicking it with his fingernail. Realizing he had no cigarette, he turned to Mordino, who obliged him with one. Lighting it, Trump declared, “I’m a dedicated detective, Casserole. I’d appreciate it if you could enlighten me on how you accomplished this.”

“I didn’t do it,” Casserole replied, a hint of defiance in his voice.

“No?” Trump’s expression shifted as he exchanged glances with Mordino, who merely shrugged.

“No, I didn’t do it,” Casserole repeated, a flicker of confidence igniting. “Show me your badge.”

“I don’t carry a badge. I’m a private investigator,” Trump explained.

Casserole’s resolve hardened. “I won’t hesitate to call the police.”

“You needn’t bother,” Trump replied, “They’ll arrive shortly regardless.” He moved toward the door, with Mordino following closely behind.

Casserole stood there, rooted in the center of the lavender carpet. “You gentlemen have squandered your time,” he asserted, his voice steady.

“Quiet,” Mordino said one final time, his tone final.

In the elevator, Trump mused, “Perhaps we can still catch a movie.”

“I’m feeling rather hungry,” Mordino remarked. “Shall we grab some lunch?”

Trump opened his mouth, and the cigarette slipped from his lips. He stepped on the stub and replied, “We’ll have lunch, then we’ll visit another suspect.”

“No double feature, then?” Mordino inquired, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

“No double feature. We’ll see this next suspect, and if we come up empty, it might be wise to leave the city for a few days to let the dust settle. Do you understand?”

“I see what you mean,” Mordino acknowledged. “Who’s our next meeting with?”

“We’re heading to see Daisy Kennedy, the jewelry designer,” Trump stated decisively. “Our destination is the Vanderbilt Hotel.”

With a facade of confidence, they concocted a story, presenting themselves as representatives of a wealthy Manhattan art collector. This charade granted them access to Daisy Kennedy's luxurious suite, a radiant spectacle of topaz yellow—ceiling, walls, rugs, and furniture all bathed in the same vibrant hue. Daisy herself was adorned in a flowing topaz yellow gown, her hair mirroring the color.

“I can’t accommodate you for long, gentlemen,” she announced, her voice laced with urgency. “I have a cocktail party to attend at half past three.”

“What was that again?” Mordino inquired, his brow furrowing with curiosity.

“Let’s move past it,” Trump replied, his tone resolute.

Daisy’s expression darkened, her thoughts clearly clouded.

“What were your activities last night, Miss Kennedy?” Trump probed, his voice steady yet piercing.

Her topaz eyes ignited with a fierce glow as she retorted, “What exactly do you mean by coming up here and—”

“Please, remain calm, Miss Kennedy. We’re merely fulfilling our duty,” he assured her, his demeanor unwavering.

“But you stated that you were—”

“No, we are not representatives of a wealthy collector. We are here solely to ask you a few questions,” he clarified, his voice firm.

“You’re not the police!” she exclaimed, her fingers nervously twisting the four rings adorned with large, yellow topaz stones.

“Not quite,” Trump conceded with a nod.

“Well then...” she trailed off, uncertainty creeping into her voice.

“Are you acquainted with Lyle Huggins?” Trump pressed on, his gaze unwavering.

“Yes, I was scheduled to meet him this afternoon,” she responded, her voice tinged with confusion.

“That meeting will not take place, Miss Kennedy,” Trump stated grimly. “He was murdered this morning.”

“Oh,” she breathed, the weight of the news settling in.

“He was a remarkable man, Miss Kennedy. You shouldn’t have let it come to this,” he added, an edge of accusation creeping into his tone.

“Let what come to this?” she asked, bewildered.

“Taken his life,” he asserted, watching her reaction closely.

Her fingers continued their anxious dance around the topaz rings, each one spinning nervously as the polished nails glimmered with topaz-yellow polish.

“You and Lyle shared a long friendship, Miss Kennedy. For you, it was deeper than mere friendship. You were enamored with him, but he had turned his affections elsewhere—toward Tess Gillette. This revelation ignited a deep-seated hatred within you. You had known Tess for some time, dismissing her as a girl of wealth devoid of intellect or real talent as a sculptress. You merely glanced at her at galleries and parties until Lyle’s affections shifted. That’s when your disdain truly festered,” Trump articulated, his voice calm yet piercing.

“How do you know all of this? Who are you? What…?” she stammered, her voice trembling.

“Please, exercise caution and listen,” Mordino urged, his tone a blend of empathy and gravity.

“It was calculated for you to seek Tess Gillette’s companionship. You desired to glean information about Lyle’s feelings for her. When you discovered she held affection for another man, your envy for Casserole intensified. Yet, hope lingered within you. You approached Lyle, insisting that Tess was pursuing someone else, practically pleading for him to marry you. Instead of alleviating the situation, your intervention escalated the tension. Lyle began to investigate, uncovering the truth about Tess and Casserole. Even in his lovesick state, he was a professional insurance fraud investigator, employing a private investigator to shadow Tess throughout the week,” Trump recounted, the weight of the narrative pressing down upon them.

Mordino flicked away a cigarette, while Trump deftly caught it, striking a match with a flick of his fingernail.

Daisy Kennedy, her mind racing, murmured, “All of this seems plausible, yet I find myself at a loss. I don’t know what to think or say.”

“You need not utter a single word,” Trump replied, his voice steady and unyielding. “Simply pen a confession note—that’s all. Write down your truth, sign it, and the need for further words will vanish.”

"It was a matter of convenience for you, Miss Kennedy. Casserole had a compelling motive to eliminate Huggins, and so did Tess Gillette. Initially, she seemed indifferent toward Lyle. Yet, after he threatened to have Casserole arrested, her feelings shifted dramatically; suddenly, her disdain for him was palpable. But your emotions ran deeper. It was a kind of hatred that could only culminate in murder."

"You are mistaken," she retorted, her voice laced with urgency. "I did not commit that act!"

"A confession could lighten your burden," he replied matter-of-factly.

"I refuse to sign any confession," she insisted, her voice trembling. "I had nothing to do with it. I adored Lyle. I—"

"You would save yourself a great deal of anguish by admitting your guilt," he interjected.

Tears began to stream down her cheeks. "I didn't do it! I—"

Trump exchanged a glance with Mordino, who merely shrugged.

"Is that all you wish to convey, Miss Kennedy?" Trump inquired.

"That is all I have to say," she replied, her sobs subsiding. Her once-vibrant topaz eyes now appeared dulled by despair.

"Are you going to arrest me?" she asked, a flicker of fear in her gaze.

Trump shook his head. "We are neither law enforcement nor thugs; we will not lay a hand on you."

She stared at him, bewildered. "Then, who are you?"

Trump shrugged nonchalantly. "Perhaps we are just two foolish souls wandering through this chaos."

He nodded at Mordino, and they exited Daisy Kennedy's suite.

As they strolled toward the coupe, Mordino remarked, "It's nearly three."

"We'll grab a bite to eat, then return to the coupe and wait a little longer," Trump replied, rummaging through his change pocket. He produced two half dollars, three quarters, six dimes, and four nickels. "This should afford us a respectable lunch," he added. "Afterward, we’ll observe where Daisy Kennedy heads next."

"That sounds fine to me," Mordino agreed. "Anything is acceptable, as long as we eat something soon."

They dined at the hotel, then settled into the lobby to smoke. At twenty past three, Daisy Kennedy walked through the lobby, and Trump and Mordino followed her at a leisurely pace.

A taxi awaited at the curb, and Daisy climbed in.

The coupe discreetly tailed the taxi.

Navigating up Fourth Avenue, weaving through heavy uptown traffic, they finally arrived at the street where Tess Gillette resided. The taxi halted outside a white stone house, and Daisy stepped out.

The coupe circled the block once before Trump parked it at the corner.

"This looks promising," he observed.

Mordino nodded in agreement.

Trump continued, "You might want to stay here. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, you should come in and check on me."

Mordino hesitated, then offered, "Perhaps you should take this." He produced a small pistol from his coat pocket. Trump grimaced at the sight.

"I detest using those things," he confessed.

Nonetheless, he accepted the pistol, stowing it in his pocket before ascending the pristine white stone steps.

The servant answered the door, and Trump said, "Well, it's past three-thirty. Miss Gillette is expecting me, surely?"

The lackey shook his head. "Miss Gillette is occupied. You must return later."

"Tell Miss Gillette that I—" He caught himself, reconsidering. "No, don’t relay any message to her. In fact, perhaps you should take a stroll around the block."

The lackey began to fidget. "You were not among those invited!"

"Take a walk around the block," Trump insisted. "Look, I’ll help you down the steps!"

He grasped the lackey and maneuvered him down the steps. Mordino understood the plan and opened the door of the coupe. Trump shoved the lackey inside.

"What’s happening?" Mordino asked, perplexed.

"A drastic measure to prevent unnecessary complications," Trump murmured. "Take him to a show, to a dance—anything to keep him away from the house for a while. Otherwise, he might impede my progress."

The lackey began to shout.

"Gag him," Trump commanded, scanning the street for witnesses. He then heard a thud as Mordino's fist connected with the lackey's chin, rendering him unconscious.

"I'll drive around the block a few times," Mordino said.

Trump ascended the steps again, taking his time as he explored each room. He moved cautiously, his ears attuned to the voices emanating from an adjacent space. The door was shut, but he managed to peer through the narrow windows of the studio.

The floor-to-ceiling glass panes revealed Tess Gillette, Casserole, and Daisy Kennedy, all engaged in a heated conversation. Initially hushed, their voices crescendoed into a full-blown argument, drawing Trump into their fray.

"Clever maneuvering, wasn't it, Daisy?" Tess accused. "You invited me to the hotel under the guise of hospitality, yet your true intention was to keep me away from here. You didn’t want Lyle to reach out to me!"

"That’s a falsehood," Daisy retorted vehemently. "I invited you to the hotel for business purposes. I needed you to work on those inlaid ivory parts."

"That was my initial thought," Tess replied. "But now I see the truth. You aimed to keep me away from Lyle, believing you had one last chance to reclaim him. When you realized it was futile, you murdered him in a fit of jealousy!"

"She’s right, Daisy," Casserole chimed in. "You killed Lyle Huggins. You adored him, endured him, and ultimately, you loathed him!"

He rose from his chair, pointing an accusatory finger at her, causing a few glasses on a nearby cocktail tray to clatter to the floor.

Daisy's voice rose in protest. "You are both lying! You’re trying to shift the blame onto me, twisting the truth to eliminate me from your lives. You’re attempting to orchestrate a double murder!" 

"What do you mean by that?" Casserole demanded, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Daisy's voice dropped to a whisper, her gaze unwavering as she confronted the art appraiser. "You took his life! You had every motive to do so, and you acted on it. Now, you’re attempting to eliminate me from the equation. I know your secrets, Casserole. I see through your facade of swindling art patrons, charging them outrageous sums for nothing more than worthless trinkets, just as Tess has suffered."

Tess Gillette, her composure shattered, unleashed a torrent of venomous insults toward Daisy, the atmosphere thick with tension and hostility.

Casserole's voice dripped with condescension as he remarked, "It seems you wield considerable influence in this town, don’t you, Daisy?"

A spark of pride ignited within her, and she nodded, a cruel smile curling her lips. As Casserole edged closer, his pallid face betraying a sinister intent, a flicker of understanding danced in Trump’s eyes. He instinctively reached into his coat pocket, ensuring the weight of his pistol was still there, a silent promise of protection.

"You talk a big game," Casserole sneered.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" Daisy shot back, her gaze unflinching.

"You might just prove to be quite the nuisance," Casserole retorted, his approach relentless.

Desperation surged through Tess as she clutched Casserole's arm, pleading, "Please, this has gone far enough."

But Casserole, consumed by frenzy, shoved Tess aside, lunging for Daisy. She stumbled backward, and as he seized her throat, a single scream escaped her lips before it turned into a strangled gurgle. Trump burst through the door, his handgun drawn, aimed unwaveringly at Casserole's spine.

"Enough of this murder spree," he commanded, his voice steady.

Yet Casserole, now a man possessed, tightened his grip on Daisy's windpipe, oblivious to Trump's presence. Tess, in a desperate attempt to shield Trump from the chaos, threw herself between them, embodying a misguided martyrdom.

Trump could not stand idly by as Daisy's life hung in the balance. He had to intervene, and swiftly. He pushed Tess aside, eliciting a scream as she clawed at his face in protest. With a determined strike, he delivered a precise punch to her jaw, sending her reeling across the room.

Then, he turned his focus to Casserole.

In a fierce struggle, Trump attempted to pry Casserole away from Daisy, who was now in grave peril. Casserole, a wild man, was intent on extinguishing her life. Knowing he had no choice, Trump raised his pistol and brought the butt crashing down against Casserole's skull, rendering him unconscious.

"We’ll take them to Lyle’s apartment," Trump declared. "If the cops aren’t there yet, it’s wise to resolve this where it all began."

"That’s an excellent idea," Mordino agreed, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "I have a feeling this will lead us to victory."

Trump nodded, nudging Casserole with the pistol. "You and Miss Gillette will join me in the opera seats. Miss Kennedy will ride up front." He then gestured to the trembling lackey, "The studio is in disarray. Go in and tidy up. If you have questions for Miss Gillette, you might as well call the police station; that will be her temporary residence before her extended journey."

He climbed into the coupe and shut the door, Casserole and Miss Gillette shackled together. Daisy, still groaning, was barely conscious as Mordino shifted the car into gear, speeding down the street.

"You’re making a grave mistake," Casserole hissed.

"I wouldn’t advise discussing mistakes if I were you!" Trump retorted, feeling a surge of confidence. A case like this could establish a private investigator’s reputation, paving the way for an influx of opportunities—and wealth.

A smile crept onto Trump’s face.

Tess Gillette interjected, "I warned you, Mr. Trump. Expect waves of trouble, and don’t anticipate a grand triumph!"

"Do I turn here?" Mordino asked, breaking the tension.

Ahead, a cluster of police cars surrounded the upscale apartment complex where Lyle Huggins had met his end. The coupe parked across the street, and Trump observed the throng of onlookers and reporters.

"All right, let’s move," he said, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

As they entered the building, eyes turned, whispers filled the air, and a uniformed officer approached. "What’s going on here?"

"This is the Lyle Huggins case," Trump replied, his resolve unwavering.

They boarded the elevator, ascending seven floors to the apartment. Inside, the scene was bustling with law enforcement, detectives, and reporters, all circling the lifeless body of his friend.

"What’s happening?" a plainclothes officer inquired.

"This is the Lyle Huggins case," Trump repeated, his voice steady.

The chaos outside continued as the investigation unfolded in the living room. A sharp-tongued officer remarked, "Cabrera is in the bedroom, questioning Huggins' housekeeper." He regarded Trump with skepticism. "What do you have?"

"Enough," Trump asserted, gesturing toward Casserole. "Here’s your suspect. I’m heading in to speak with Cabrera."

As he approached the bedroom door, he caught Casserole's protest, "You’re making a colossal mistake..."

Trump couldn’t help but smile.

Stepping into the bedroom, he found Cabrera, the formidable detective, alongside two officers and the housekeeper, their expressions tense as they hovered over Lyle Huggins' lifeless form.

Cabrera gripped the housekeeper by the neck, compelling her to confront the brutal reality of her actions. "Look at him. He’s dead. Do you comprehend that? You summoned us here, thinking it would shield you from suspicion. You claimed a man named Trump came in and killed him. But Trump isn’t unknown in this department. He’s a private investigator—clumsy, superficial, and proud—but not a murderer! Your story fails to convince any professional here."

"Why did you kill Huggins?" Cabrera demanded, his patience waning, punctuating his words with a quick jab to her ribs, shattering her facade.

"I... I killed him!" she confessed, her voice breaking into sobs. "I wanted something he owned; it was too tempting to resist."

"What was it?" Cabrera pressed, exchanging glances with one of the officers as he produced a plastic bag containing a knife.

"Take this down," he instructed, the weight of the moment settling heavily around them.

The housekeeper's sobs echoed through the room as she recounted the tale of a man consumed by his collection of exquisite marble statues. "He possessed a fortune in those little sculptures," she lamented, her voice trembling with emotion. "He spoke of them incessantly, declaring their worth to be beyond measure. He would tell me how the greatest sculptress in the world, Tess Gillette, had crafted them, insisting that no amount of money could ever procure such treasures. His passion for those statues ignited a fire within me, a longing so intense that it drove me to madness. In a moment of desperation, I... I took his life."

Cabrera, a sly grin spreading across his face, surveyed the scene. He turned to the officers and quipped, "That was rather swift, don’t you think? We arrived at this scene a mere two and a half hours ago. I can easily envision what transpired with that would-be wise guy, Trump. He strolled in here this morning, only to find Huggins lifeless in bed. I imagine he thought he could partner up with his sidekick, Mordino, to crack this case by pointing fingers at anyone but the true culprit. Oh, how I would relish the moment he discovers he missed the real murderer right from the outset!"

His gaze fell upon Trump's astonished expression, a moment of realization dawning.

Epilogue

Mordino spoke with fervor, his words tumbling out in a rush. "What’s this about crying wolf? It was merely an unfortunate twist, nothing more. At least we managed to pin something on someone. And let's not forget, we saved Daisy Kennedy from a grim fate. We’ve got that clever con artist, Casserole, behind bars for his art forgeries, and—"

As they made their way toward the coupe, Trump shook his head, his spirit visibly weighed down. "Can we turn this into a late double feature film?" he asked, his voice tinged with resignation.

"Absolutely," Mordino replied, placing a reassuring hand on Trump's shoulder. "That’s a brilliant idea. Let’s hit the movies and clear our minds. Don’t fret, my friend. Brighter days are on the horizon. Hey, where are you off to?"

Trump veered away from the coupe, heading toward a nearby corner drugstore. "I’ll be right back," he assured. "I just need to step in, pay homage to Humphrey Bogart, and grab an aspirin. It’ll help me endure the wait for those better days."

THE END