There’s a hand gripping the crook of my arm.

“You’re not going are you?”

I know this guy by sight; a recent transfer to the local police department from some out-of-city place I never bothered to learn. Some kind of big-shot detective, only unlike me he’s the kind that gets a regular paycheck.

“Are you buying?” I figure I’ve got nothing to lose by asking.

Mister Big-Shot gets Brett’s attention behind the bar straightaway – not a difficult job seeing as this cop is built like one of those new upright refrigerators; bulky, long-faced, distinctive nose – and indicates three whiskeys. He’s either being very generous, needs to drink twice as much to maintain his fluid levels, or he’s got a partner here I haven’t spotted yet.

“Let’s take them outside,” he says, handing me one of the glasses. “We might be able to hear ourselves speak.”

I don’t have much to say but I’m happy to listen if he wants an ear. It’s not that much quieter outside, truth to tell. The rain’s pelting down on the sidewalk and the guttering of the bar’s blocked, sending a waterfall crashing onto an iron chair not quite under the canopy out front. Still, it’s a little cooler and that’s something. The third guy in our group who was waiting outside has the look of a rookie cop and I figure if I get close enough to him he’s probably got that new cop smell too.

“Cheers!” I say, nodding appreciation and taking a sip of my gift. It could do with a little water and fortunately there’s plenty of that around so I stick the glass out from under the covers. I wait for an automobile to pass and for the waves in the surface water to hit the kerb. “You’re after my help with something, I take it,” I say, since nobody else seems to want to chat.

“Yeah,” says Big-Shot while chewing his lip. “People say you’re quite good at your job and we could do with a fresh look at a case. Any information, insights, ideas. That sort of thing.”

I raise the glass against one of the lights outside the bar to see if the colour looks about right. “I appreciate the drink,” I say, “but even I don’t work this cheap.”

“No sense of civic pride, Mister Rake?” That’s the rookie and I’m glad to see there’s a warm smile on his face. It’s quickly followed by a grimace as he tries to swallow the least amount of whiskey possible.

“The city will pay for your services,” I’m assured by the walking chiller cabinet. He then starts telling me about a series of murders that have been kept out of the press to avoid a panic or give any other lowlife an idea.

Auntie Annie was the first victim, attacked with an axe in the alley at the back of the brothel she runs – sorry, ran – down near the quay. I’d heard about her death but not the grisly manner in which it took place and like everyone else who knew her or her girls I’d figured it was probably someone upset at the cost or the crabs who’d finally flipped out. A butcher named Brian was then found beheaded at the back of the bus depot and this was quickly followed by the discovery of the cut-up corpse of Carlos, head chef at one of the few legal gambling venues in the city centre.

“I ate at that casino once,” I tell my cop friends. “Sick for a couple of days after. You sure this wasn’t just an upset customer with an upset stomach too?”

Detective Big-Shot shrugs. “Anything’s possible and I’m learning that in this city that is literally true.”

Two more killings are described to me. Some drifter forcibly drowned and then dragged up into the dunes to be discovered, and Edward Edwards, an engineer for the Eastern Express rail company, tied up and electrocuted in his apartment.

“I may be spotting a pattern,” I say sarcastically. My whiskey needs a little more water in it.

“Those people who said you’re good at your job weren’t joking then?” asks the rookie with a glint in his eye. I like him more than his partner.

“Obviously, you may well have a vested interest in this case now,” says Big-Shot sticking his head out from under the canopy and briefly squinting up into the sky. If he’s wondering if the rain will stop then I could let him know the bad news but I figure if he’s as good as his reputation then he should be given a chance to work it out for himself.

I swallow the end of my glass. “I reckon I can start to worry in around ten murders.”

*

I’ve learnt a lot in the past couple of months. Police pay isn’t great, for one. Still, it’s regular and it all adds up. Rookie’s name is Tommy Simpson. Big-Shot’s got a real name too but he’s not easy to get along with so I keep choosing to forget it. He’s not exactly police either but rather part of a unit dealing with serious interstate crimes – he’s been tracking and catching or killing people like this for years – and what we’re dealing with is something he classifies as a “serial killer”. For my own records I’m still labelling the perp as “sick nutter”. I’ve learnt that this sick nutter is nasty, nobody I know knows a damn thing about him, and that what he did to Larry the Leper in the library will give me nightmares to the day I die.

Even as I slam the door on the cab up I realise it’s going to be difficult to keep this particular death out of the papers. J.P. Patricks, publisher of the City Press is lying in the middle of the road, face down, arms spread. The rain’s diluting his blood and brain matter, washing bits of both down the overflowing drains. Even without the inherent media interest in this killing there have been witnesses this time and I guess that Big-Shot is talking to one of them. I sidle over as they’re standing in a doorway of an old city council building so it’s got the two benefits of being sheltered and not being quite so close the mess on the tarmac.

Make that three benefits: the witness is a blonde with perkiness in all the right places. Her eyeliner’s smudged and she looks pale but that more-or-less describes every dame in the city.

“This is Rick Rake, Miss Johnson, assisting us in this investigation,” says Big-Shot as he sees me. I’m silently grateful that he doesn’t emphasise “assisting” in quite the same way that everyone else at the police department does which makes it clear I’ve not been the great help I was made out to be. “She saw Patricks getting pulled out onto the parapet up there,” says Big-Shot, jerking his thumb upwards. “Large guy, dressed in black. Patricks was tied up and shouting. Knife used to silence Patricks, then pushed off.”

“Pushed off a parapet in public,” I say quietly. I can see Rookie a bit further down the road talking to some beat cops. “That must have been horrible to see, Miss Johnson,” I offer. “Can I ask where you were at the time?”

“Over there,” she says, pointing at a corner deli. Through the window I can see the owner giving a statement to a junior inspector. By the ground at Miss Johnson’s feet is the brown paper bag containing whatever she’d bought, soaked through now. For some reason, in spite of everything, it’s making me hungry.

“She says nobody’s come out of the building since the incident but there are too many windows around the back and two fire escapes to be certain. Uniforms have been in and combed the place; I’ve taken a quick look at the Patricks’ office too. Nothing.”

I’m looking at Miss Johnson’s lower lip. It’s dry and cracked and trembling slightly.

“You look like you could do with a drink and something to eat, Miss Johnson,” I say with not the greatest expectation of a positive answer but she surprises me with an emphatic yes.

Big-Shot then surprises me further by pointing down a side street. “There’s a French place I’ve tried a few times down there,” he says. “Why don’t you see if you can come up with any new questions for Miss Johnson. She’s an eye-witness so we’ll need to arrange protection for her anyway. I’ll go speak with the chief.”

*

“Call me Victoria.”

She’s drawing in deep on a cigarette and it’s creating some beautiful dimples in her cheeks. Throwing that first gin and tonic down her neck has given her a lovely bit of colour too. I’m smiling for a lot of reasons.

“So, Victoria, what sort of look did you get at the attacker?”

She shrugs and blows a cloud over the restaurant table. With her free hand she lifts her second gin. “Nothing of the face. He was muscular under the coat, a lot bigger than Patricks.”

“And did you know Patricks at all?”

“Everyone who works down this area knows him a bit. I’ve never spoken to him if that’s what you’re asking.” She looks thoughtful for a few seconds. “I’ve never seen anyone killed before. I thought I might feel different. Have you seen many people killed Mister Rake?”

“Lots of dead bodies,” I say. “That comes with the territory. Not so many killings but, yes, a few. People react differently. You might be feeling fine now but later… who knows?”

“Will you be protecting me then?”

I shouldn’t be thinking the things I’m thinking but this is my sort of broad. Gutsy, forthright, and right now out-drinking me. I’m trying to think of something funny to say but the waiter’s turned up with our food. I’m eating steak because I want to see if the Europeans can do it better than Mickey’s Grill over on Fourth Street.

“What did you pick?” I ask, looking at the pastry dish Victoria’s busy slicing. She shows me the menu, her thumbnail pointing out her choice as she blows gently and prepares to take a bite. It’s turning out to be a day full of surprises for me. This time it’s my reactions that impress me as I grab the fork before she’s got a chance to put it in her mouth.

“Hey!” She begins to say something else but I cut her off.

“What do you do for a living Victoria?”

“I work for a family construction business. I thought we were done with questioning.” She’s trying to force the forkful of food towards her face again but I’m stronger than I look, take it off her, and put it down on the plate. She’s giving me a look that says that the chance of anything hot happening later is cooling down faster than her untouched meal. “Cost analysis, if you’re really interested,” she continues. I’ve got this horrible prickling sensation down my neck and spine. It’s that old detective’s hunch finally kicking into gear so I ask for her specific job title and she tells me. Damn.

“Any chance you were named after Queen Victoria?” I ask next and this time it’s her turn to look surprised.

“My mother was a British historian,” she tells me by way of explanation. “Are you going to tell me what the problem is?”

I’m thinking it through in my head, finally putting all the pieces together, and I’ve got a horrible feeling that we’re both in serious danger but I don’t want to create a panic. I’m about to say something when I see her glance over my shoulder. I start to turn but feel a hand press around the back of my neck. I’ve felt this hand on me before, only then it was in a crowded bar.

“We need to have a quick word,” says Detective Big-Shot. I can’t quite turn my head around or up enough to face him but I can tell there’s no suitable negative answer he’ll accept on account of a hard prodding in my upper back. Victoria’s looking confused but not overly concerned and I don’t think I’m going to be able to convey “get out of here and bring as many police officers as you can back with you” in a glance since we’ve only just met.

“Stay right there Miss Johnson. Someone’s coming to look after you in just a minute.” And now he’s leading me into the men’s rest room.

“A gun?” I ask when the door’s closed. “I felt sure it was going to be the rope you took off Patricks’ body. Miss Johnson said his arms were tied but they were spread when I arrived. I guess you just waited in the building until the regular cops arrived and then started searching with them.”

“You are smart Rake. I’ll give you that.” The hand not holding the weapon pats his pocket and then pulls out the climbing rope that earlier had been used to restrain the deceased publisher. “Be smart a little while longer and don’t struggle too much. Rick Rake in the restaurant with a revolver works for me just as well.”

“You’ve missed out Q though. Sorry to disappoint you but the quantity surveyor named after a queen never ate poisoned quiche. Why don’t you think about starting from A again?” I doubt he’s going to take up my suggestion.

“If Miss Johnson happens to die out of order… well, it’s only me who’ll know and I think I can live with that.” He’s gesturing for me to kneel down and I can’t see a way out of this so I do as he says. In a flash I feel the rope around by neck and I reach to pull it away but there’s a knee in my back keeping me still. I’m trying to breathe but the pressure on my windpipe is too much. I can feel the rope twist a little, burning slightly as it tears at my skin, and then it loosens enough for me to get a finger in place. I manage to get some air into my lungs.

There’s a loud bang and a crushing weight falls on me. A sharp pain in my head and then blackness.

*

The rain’s coming down much like it always does but there’s a make-shift shelter outside the restaurant which is keeping me dry. A medic from the police department is wiping blood off me. Some of it’s mine from the cut on the temple I received from the toilet bowl but most of it is Big-Shot’s. I don’t know for certain why he did what he did. Maybe he just spent so long tracking the insane he thought he could do it better.

I’ve shaken the hand of the rookie already and he’s off being congratulated by his colleagues and superiors for ending the life of this sick nutter or serial killer; whatever you want to call him.

“You saved my life,” says Victoria. I hadn’t heard her approach. She’s smoking in every sense of the word.

“And he saved mine. And probably yours too,” I reply, nodding at my saviour’s back.

Victoria shrugs and looks at her cigarette with disinterest. She drops it and stubs it out. “You’re still my hero Rick Rake.” She touches the mark on my neck gently and then kisses me on the cheek. It’s less than I hoped for and more than I deserve. Blind luck that the rookie came down to the restaurant and needed to use the conveniences. I’ll take blind luck. “I heard them say he’ll probably be promoted to Sergeant for this.”

I nod. Saved from strangulation by Sergeant Simpson. On this case I shouldn’t have expected anything else.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mister Rake?” asks Joseph. Joseph’s my driver; not long-term, of course. I haven’t suddenly come into a fortune while I’ve been away, no. Joseph was sent to fetch me at the request of his employer who right now and for a tidy little daily retainer also happens to be my employer.

“Just admiring nature, Joseph,” I tell him. “I had a potted plant once but this is quite different.” I can tell from his eyes in the rear view mirror that he’s smiling at that but he doesn’t say anything. We’ve already had a short chat on the drive out from the city so there’s not a lot else to say. Joseph’s young and friendly and has told me bits and pieces about life working up at the mansion but I figure it’s easier to not press him too hard and conduct my full investigation when I get there. And if that means the case takes a little longer, well, my wallet certainly won’t complain.

*

The mansion’s a little smaller and a little more rundown than I was expecting but Mrs Warmer is just the same as when she surprised me in the office five days earlier.

“Joseph!” she addresses the driver in her nasally voice. “Take Mister Rake’s bag to the guest room in the west wing after you’ve parked the car. Mister Rake,” she says to me, slipping a hand around the crook of my arm, “let me give you a quick tour and then you’ll want to freshen up I have no doubt.”

I hope she’s not making some comment about my suit because it’s the only one I’ve got so I just smile and nod and let her take me for a quick wander through the house. It’s your standard mansion layout with a large entrance hall and its obligatory black-and-white tiles and required-by-law impressively wide staircase. Doors to the left and right at the front of the building lead to drawing rooms and dining rooms while there’s a gentlemen’s room to the rear and the servants’ quarters along with kitchen and pantry too. Upstairs it’s bedrooms, a cloak room, and a small library with some nice views to the tree-lined drive we arrived by out the front and a modest, well-tended lawn out back surrounded by various bushes and a small building.

“Is that where the professor usually worked?” I ask, gesturing at the building at the far end of the garden. Mrs Warmer confirms that it was so I tell her that I want to take look.

“It’s raining quite heavily,” she tells me, reaching for a bell pull near the window we’re gazing out from. “I’ll get Joseph to fetch umbrellas and take you across.”

“No need, Mrs Warmer,” I answer quickly, stopping her hand gently. “Perhaps it will be best if I run across there on my own anyway.” She’s looking at me with a little suspicion in her eyes. I get that a lot – yeah, even from little, old, recently-widowed ladies – but I can be quite disarming when I flash my pearly whites. “I’m sure you’ve seen the lab plenty of times already.” She tells me Henry told her she was never to go in there and it holds no interest for her to disobey him now. “I just want to take a quick look and get a feel for the case,” I let her know and head off before she has a chance to drag Joseph into babysitting duty.

*

This definitely smells like a lab but it looks more like a private office so I’m trying not to drip too much on everything. There are a few beakers here and there and a couple of flasks of some liquid or another on shelves, plus some dangerous-looking copper wiring running up and around the walls which seems to be causing my skin to itch, but a lot of the building’s single room seems given over to books. I’m not completely stupid but I’m also not so smart that reading through this lot will give me much insight into whatever the professor was doing before his death. Still, the chalkboard mounted on the wall by the door catches my eye on account of the octagon outline, arrows, and odd markings on it. There are some words in educated-looking scrawl inside the diagram: “metathesis field”.

I pick up a couple of books and glance at the spines; yeah, there’s no way I’m reading these. I give them a shake just in case. I heard from a detective friend down on the coast a year or so back that a clue fell out of a book once when he did that. No such luck for me.

There’s the sound of splashing from outside and I spot Joseph running from the house along the puddle-covered path towards me. He’s got an umbrella up and another under his arm. Bless that old dear, but it’s not as if I’d be much wetter than I am anyway without it now.

“Hey! Mister Rake!” shouts Joseph, standing in the doorway a few seconds later. “Mrs Warmer said you needed some assistance getting back.”

“Thanks, Joseph,” I reply. “Call me Rick.” I get the feeling he probably won’t. I don’t think there’s anything obvious that’s going to help me here. I ask him if he wants to come in out of the rain but he shakes his head and tells me that Mrs Warmer would be happier if the people who knew Henry left this one place of his alone. I can think of better shrines. “I’ll just lock up,” I tell him and then something really quite strange happens.

“What are you doing down there?” asks Joseph. It’s a good question.

“That’s a good question,” I answer as I lift the startled-looking moggy off my chest and push myself out of the puddle and off the floor outside the building where I find myself laying. I’m now so wet that the umbrella Joseph hands me won’t make the slightest difference but I take it anyway.

“What happened?” asks Joseph. I buy some time trying to recollect and ask him to tell me what he just saw. “You came out of the lab and fell over while I was putting your umbrella up.” He looks confused and sounds unconvinced, but I might just be projecting.

“And then a ginger tom jumped on me,” I add slowly, watching it run across the grass towards the shelter of some bushes or just away from us. “Apparently. Did you see me fall over?” Joseph’s silence is all the answer I need. “Let’s get back to the house,” I say, and Joseph looks a little relieved to hear that. “I have got to get some dry clothes.” I can’t help but look back at the lab as we make our way to the mansion. Odd things happen in my line of work and I’m no stranger to them but this was peculiar even by my standards. I realise I never locked up, but who’s going to break in?

*

The bath’s helped me recover a bit but the need to borrow some of Professor Warmer’s clothes makes me feel a bit uncomfortable and not just because he was a couple of inches shorter than me. Mrs Warmer doesn’t seem to mind but she strikes me as one of those type of ladies who gets over tragedies quickly. I get a chance to talk to her when we meet on the landing and ask her to tell me what sort of man her husband was.

“Well, Mister Rake, Henry was a private man but he was a good husband. A little emotional,” she confides with a hint of a smile, “prone to blubbing, and dedicated to his work.”

“Which was?”

“Work for the government,” she said quickly. “It’s no secret that’s who he worked for, although the specifics were never explained, and I never asked. I do know he’d recently completed something important.” I persuade Mrs Warmer to tell me about his death. “Gloria, the cook, found him in the smoking room. The police say he had been hit from behind with a metal pole but couldn’t determine who by and found no indication of an intruder or any sign that anything had been taken. They gave up on him. We were all questioned but I don’t believe anyone in this house was responsible.”

“And the government?” I ask. “If he worked for them did they get in touch?”

“Two men took some papers from his laboratory, but nothing more.” I can see her lip tremble a little so I decide to ease away from the conversation with one last question.

“Did the professor have any outside interests?”

“He loved his car, Mister Rake,” she says after the shortest of pauses. It’s a nice car, I’ll admit; the ride was lovely and it was well looked-after but that pause is more interesting to me.

*

I’ve got time for a quick meeting with Gloria before she has to prepare food for the evening meal. I’m a detective so I’m used to reading people quickly and Gloria is no exception; this is one dangerous lady. She’s got eyes that can pierce plate armour and the kind of lips that could be used as a life preserver if you ever got washed overboard at sea. Tall, slender, and dressed to accentuate the curves she’s got, she looks out of place here in the countryside when she could be breaking hearts and causing car crashes in the city. She’s also very flustered right now.

“Gloria, it’s okay,” I say, trying to calm her down but there’s a mix of fury and fear behind those long eyelashes. “I’m a man of the world,” I add. I’m not trying to hit on her, although the thought is somewhere at the back of my mind. Gloria struggles and pulls up her underwear underneath her skirt. “That’s a hell of a first impression to make,” I say with what I hope is a genuine smile and then try to introduce myself.

“I know who you are Rick Rake. We all know who you are.” A voice like smoke trapped in an ice cube. That reminds me: it’s been a while since I had a drink and I’m hoping the old professor liked whiskey.

She lights a cigarette and tries to calm herself. She’s not the friendly sort so I try to assert a dominant position. “Would you mind telling me why you were doing exactly what you were just doing?” I ask, and nod towards the small puddle on the hallway tiles near her feet.

Gloria’s not the sort to be dominated and she draws herself up, straightening her clothing. It’s a nice sight. “I have no idea,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “Perhaps we’re all still very stressed over Henry’s death.”

I tell her she’s probably right and ask if she’s happy to answer a few questions. She agrees so long as she can clean up the mess and water the plant in the window while I do so. I think it’s for the best that she does. I start by asking her about the day of the murder.

“I had driven the two of us into the city so that the professor could pick up some books from the library and I could pick out some new cutlery for the dining room. At around three I drove us back. I prepared food. I laid the food at six. The professor was not at the table so I went to look for him at Mrs Warmer’s request and that’s when I found him in the smoking room.”

“Do you often drive the professor around?”

“In the past year, yes.” I’m getting one of those hunches that occur whenever there’s wealthy men and stunningly attractive women on the scene so I ask her directly if she and the professor were seeing one another behind Mrs Warmer’s back. “Absolutely not!” Gloria hisses at me. She’s mopped up the floor now and I notice her glancing at the flowering thing in the pot in the window but she tells me she has to clean herself up before she prepares the late meal and leaves. She looks good leaving.

*

I take a quick look at the scene of the alleged crime but it’s pretty much exactly as I expected. A couple of leather chairs, a bookcase, a view out onto the garden through large, locked doors. I can tell where the body was found because of the familiar, dark stain on the floorboards behind the standalone bar. I’m more interested in the bar; it’s one of those highly-polished, rosewood jobs, curved and containing an assortment of bottles including an unopened, twenty-year-old single malt. I’m tempted to crack the seal but I don’t want to press my luck as it’s not often I have any.

I notice Joseph getting soaked outside, pruning some bushes back, and I see that he keeps well away from the professor’s lab. Something about the shape of that building starts nagging at me but I’m finding it hard to think straight. I figure I’m a little tired so I decide to take a nap before food.

I’ve just made a strange noise while sitting in a toboggan in my bedroom. You’re probably wondering why and, truth be told, so am I as I’ve got no memory of climbing the stairs and this wooden contraption certainly wasn’t next to my bed earlier. That’s twice now that something very odd has happened. No, I correct myself, three times if I include Gloria’s strange behaviour too. And just like that I think I’ve solved this case. Mrs Warmer’s not going to like it.

*

I’m sitting opposite Mrs Warmer in the dining room and Gloria’s just walked in with the bowls of soup that constitute our first course. Gloria does a good job of keeping her face neutral in my presence. Joseph had held open the door for her as her hands were full so I take advantage of everyone being present and ask him to step in. Mrs Warmer and Gloria look shocked and Joseph flinches but I beckon him in with a “please.”

“Mrs Warmer,” I start, “I’m afraid that your husband’s death was an accident.” I was right; Mrs Warmer doesn’t look like she likes this revelation.

“Mister Rake, if you are going to tell me that my husband accidentally killed himself with a metal pole then it would appear that your detecting skill may have been overstated by the inspector and I’ll get Joseph to drop you back to the city immediately.”

I make a mental note to thank the inspector for sending work my way but raise a finger to stop Mrs Warmer and Joseph who looked like he was getting ready to fulfill his employer’s wishes right that second. “Let me explain,” I say and then I throw a letter down on the table.

“What’s that?” asks Gloria but I can see she recognises it.

“That’s a letter of recommendation from the professor to his friend Harvey at the city planetarium. It’s recommending you and your cooking skills, Gloria. I took it from your bedside table before coming down here.”

“How dare you!” spits Gloria, reaching across for the letter and grabbing it. I let her have it.

“Mrs Warmer,” I say, addressing her face-to-face, “your husband was about to relocate as he had completed this phase of work for the government. Your husband had affections for Gloria here and wanted to make sure she had work to look forward to.”

“He mentioned it but there were no firm plans,” admits Mrs Warmer, and then looks at Gloria. “I can’t believe you’re saying that Gloria killed Henry because he confided in her that he wouldn’t take her along. I can’t believe that at all.”

“No,” I interrupt, before Gloria has a chance to reply in a way that will probably see her blacklisted from employment in the state for years to come. “Gloria’s not as innocent as you may think but she’s not guilty of any crime either. As I said: the death was an accident but this letter was the trigger. The professor was working on something called the ‘metathesis field’. More than that, he’d finished it and has it working right now in his laboratory. There’s a board on the wall by the door in there that shows a plan of the building and indicates that the wiring around it is generating this field right now. Anyone who goes inside it faces the risk of unpredictable metathesis events at any time.”

“Can I ask what this metathesis thing is,” asks Joe, looking decidedly confused but only a little more so than the others in the room.

“A metathesis event swaps sounds or letters around in sentences making entirely new events take place,” I explain. It’s the sort of explanation that’s lost on Joseph so I continue: “For example, when I went to leave the laboratory, do you remember what happened?”

“You fell over,” Joseph answers slowly.

“No, I didn’t,” I reply, standing up. “I had intended to lock up and place the key under the mat as Mrs Warmer had asked. What happened was that I suddenly found me under a cat. Do you understand?”

“That’s preposterous!” Gloria’s looking like she thinks she’s being taken for a fool and I know she’s got a bit of a temper so I need to persuade her most of all.

“You’ve been in the lab, Gloria, so you know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve had some strange events happen to you too.”

Mrs Warmer starts to say that nobody was allowed in the lab but Gloria talks over her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about detective and I don’t like the insinuation.”

I sigh. “Fine, you pushed me Gloria. Mrs Warmer, Gloria and your husband were having an affair, probably for the best part of a year. The trips into the city were part of it but meetings obviously took place in the building in the garden too.”

“Do you have any evidence, Mister Rake? This is a horrible accusation to level at a good employee.” I like Mrs Warmer’s loyalty but it all has to come out now.

“When I first met Gloria, I’m guessing she had been intending to see to her plant,” I nod at the fiery cook. She nods back and I think I see a lightbulb switch on somewhere in the back of her gorgeous eyes. “Instead, I found her at a slant and, well, engaging in something a little unladylike.” Gloria stays silent, Joseph still looks confused, and Mrs Warmer might just be slumping a little in her seat so I press on and try to wrap it all up quickly for everyone’s sake. “A little earlier I felt tired and thought about having a short sleep in bed before dinner. I found myself instantly beeping in a sled. The metathesis field is affecting me just as it affected Gloria and, unfortunately, it also affected the professor on the day of his death.”

I walk around to Gloria and ask her to tell us the truth of that last trip into the city. Gloria brushes down her clothing – she looks so good doing that – and takes a deep breath before telling us all that she had fought with the professor when he had told her of his plans and handed her the recommendation letter. “I called him names,” she directs to Mrs Warmer, “and I’m sorry for that. When we got back he was upset and said he’d need time to make himself presentable so I left him in the car. That was the last time I saw him alive.”

“Mrs Warmer told me that the professor was an emotional man,” I say. “I’m afraid he blubbed in the car, and that’s what killed him.”

*

It’s taken a phone call to the government office for which the professor was working to get them to come and dismantle his laboratory and they’re now giving me a lift back to the city as thanks for solving the mystery of why two of their field agents reported some rather odd events taking place following a recent visit to ensure sensitive material wasn’t lost. I don’t know why they were all working on this metathesis field but anyone who thinks governments work for the good of the people was probably dropped on the head as a kid. Best thing is not to dig too deeply, even if you’re a pretty good detective like me.

Joseph’s staying on with Mrs Warmer for the time being. She’s not hurting for money and he’s got a fairly cushy job that won’t tax his limited intellect. Gloria’s disappeared already, but dames like that will land on their feet somewhere in the city and I hope I bump into her sometime.

And me, well, I’m taking a last look at a bit of nature through rain-covered windows before I get back where it’s just as crazy but slightly more predictable. And I’m hoping I don’t receive a call from Mrs Warmer asking me to investigate what happened to her husband’s malt whiskey.

Splat! Splat!

I’m looking at the door and thinking some unhappy thoughts – something like: that’s not the sound I expect to hear from a door – when it opens up and in walks Inspector Alliteration. That’s not his name, of course, but it’s the one that’s stuck in my head ever since the case of the stolen similes.

“You look positively miserable Rick,” he tells me. “Not happy, even.”

I try to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the top of the tumbler of malt to see if he’s right. It’s too dark to see much but he’s not wrong anyway.

“You should water that down, you know? Bring out the aromas. Make it last a little longer.”

You learn something new every day. I’d just learnt that Inspector Alliteration must be taking whiskey appreciation classes somewhere in the city. I tell him I don’t drink for the aromas but I swivel around and stick the glass through the open window and get the rain from the filth-coloured sky to help out anyway. A large drip from the sill above lands smack in the centre of the tumbler’s contents with a loud guffaw.

“Let me guess …” I start to say as I slide the drink away from me.

“No dice Rake,” he cuts me off. “I’ve not come here to play games. I’m gonna talk and you’re gonna listen. Then you’re gonna trawl the streets and crawl in the gutters and do what you do best.”

I’m not sure what it is I do best but I’m pretty good at staying quiet and listening unhappily to one of the city’s so-called finest letting me know what’s going down.

“Tainted onomatopoeia,” I say when he’s finished. “And no blackmail note? No suspects?”

“The city’s full of suspects. Hell, you’re one!”

“Me? Why, officer, I’m a paragon of legal virtue,” I smile. Not a happy smile.

“Don’t think we don’t keep tabs on all you private dicks whenever there’s a downturn in business. It wouldn’t take much for you to drum up some trade on your own now, would it?”

I return to my whiskey and point out that there’s never a downturn in business. The cases keep on coming, one after another, each more soul-soaking than the last.

*

“You’re back from Literalville!” says Danny The Weasel with fake genuine warmth. Not a lot gets past street smart Danny which is why I’m talking to him first. There’s street smart and real smart and explaining onomatopoeia takes a while. I think he’s got it, though.

“Yeah. There have been strange things happening,” he admits quietly, looking around weasel-like. We’re down a dead end alleyway half-sheltered from the weather by the fire escape steps outside the old Roxy. There’s nobody around and it’s difficult to hear him over the incessant buzzing of rain hitting metal.

“Now, look,” he continues, “I was minding my own business early this morning before that heist at the savings and loan which I had no part of by the way,” – the heist was news to me; my radio had stopped working a month ago – “and I saw these two gentlemen in nice suits and long coats making their way out of Chinatown and they just happened to be going my way so I tagged along a bit, for company see, only a little way’s back on account of them not knowing me and it not being polite.”

“You’ve got a way with words Danny,” I tell him. “Mind if we skip ahead to where you hear something or see something I might be interested in or is this narrative absolutely vital?”

“Oh, you been to the new Sarcasm store on Fifth too?” he asks.

I’m about to explain that I get everything I need from that old mom and pop place next to the Fat Lip Emporium when our conversation is interrupted by a deafening ribbet! I flatten to the wall and drop into a crouch pulling Danny with me quickly. He comes all too easily and he’s sporting a swiftly-opening flower of nearly-black blood on his chest.

There’s only one place that bullet could have come from so I look up into the faces of two heavily-coated men on the stairwell above. It figured. There might be a smaller guy above and behind them but it’s hard to tell for sure. One of the two is holding a revolver and I can see steam rising off its barrel from where I’m squatting. I’m glad I’m not closer or I’d probably hear the rain meowing as it hit the weapon too.

“I’m not packing!” I shout, holding my hands out. I don’t know if that’s going to matter to this pair. Poor Danny wasn’t packing either. I do know that I won’t have a chance if I try to run however.

“You! Rick Rake. You come!” shouts the unarmed one of the two. Visibly unarmed, I remind myself. He’s got a thick accent, one of the European ones. He’s also got a face that doesn’t look like it tolerates trouble and a friend with a history of cold-blooded murder.

*

This large room’s over the top of a Chinese laundry. It’s humid as hell. At least my wrists aren’t tied so I can wipe away the sweat from my forehead every few minutes.

“Surprised to see me, Rick?” asks “Boom-Boom” Bertie Simms.

“You could say that Boom-Boom,” I answer. “I didn’t think you were up for parole for another couple at least.”

“Parole’s one way out of prison Rick. There’s another way though. I’m just not a patient man it turns out.”

“So I’ve heard,” I tell him. He’s got a look like thunder on his face which he hides quickly. I move our little chat along smoothly. “You killed Danny The Weasel. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Unfortunate. He’ll be missed I’m sure. As will you.”

With hindsight I probably should have kept well away from the subject of killing in a room with a recently-escaped bank robber I helped to put away and a couple of trigger-happy Germans. I’m guessing they were German anyway.

“What’s this all about Boom-Boom? What are we all doing in Chinatown? You don’t need me here.”

“I’m disappointed in you Rick. You’re usually quicker than this.”

“I thought that was your reputation,” I tell him before I wish I hadn’t. Bertie points at one of his acquaintances and the next thing I know I’m flying across the floor and landing in a heap with a disappointing crackle. My chin feels like it’s recently made friends with a lead pipe. Those Germans must be eating their greens.

Boom-Boom and the boys are standing over me so I don’t even bother thinking about standing up. I’m trying to cover up my ribs and some of my favourite organs just in case but I know that Boom-Boom wants me to know why I’m still around and breathing for the moment even if I can’t figure it out for myself.

“I’ve got a long memory Rick, and I’m a spiteful person at heart. You put me away so I’m going to put you away. I wanted you to know this personal-like.”

“Much appreciated Boom-Boom. You remember to tell the judge that when he’s sentencing you.”

Maybe that blow to the chin has knocked some bravado into me. That’s a dangerous attribute to have in the detective business but this seems as good a time as any to set it free so I kick out and try to sweep the feet from under the European heavies. It’s like trying to knock over a building in your socks. There’s a loud whistle as a gun is cocked and placed against my temple.

“Don’t move Rake. You’ll only make this harder on yourself.”

I think my bravado’s just fainted with fright because I’m all out of retorts. Sweating on a wooden floor in an upstairs apartment in Chinatown is not how I imagined it would all end. “What’s with the tainted onomatopoeia?” I ask. It’s true; you do play for time when your life’s about to end.

Boom-Boom leans down and talks: “I’ve missed robbing banks while I’ve been inside Rick and that made me really, really unhappy.”

“We’re all unhappy Boom-Boom. We’re people. People are unhappy. And the rain doesn’t help.”

“Robbing banks makes me happy though. You wouldn’t begrudge me a little happiness now, would you?”

I would but I keep quiet partly because he’s got that wistful look in his eyes that means he’s going to explain what’s really going on and partly because with my head pressed to the floorboards I can hear a gentle tinkle, tinkle. It’s a reassuring sound.

“There’s only one person who blows up banks like me and that’s me,” he says. “That’s why they call me Boom-Boom, of course.”

Well, that’s not the reason I’d heard from a couple of his ex-girlfriends but that tinkle, tinkle is getting louder and I’ve got the feeling I should just let him talk.

“It turns out that my friends here, Herrs Muller and Freunde, wouldn’t call me Boom-Boom inside on account of their heritage and that got me thinking about how to avoid suspicion on the outside, see?”

And suddenly I was beginning to see. “The Germans are importing in bad onomatopoeia which you’re funding through bank jobs. They get paid, you get confused witnesses who report hearing woofs and zaps, and Danny The Weasel gets shot just for talking to me.”

“He was shot because he witnessed my friends here aiding me in the act of a crime this morning. The pair of you meeting up was a happy coincidence.”

It’s not my idea of happy but not a lot is.

I look at the Germans and nod with understanding. Seeing a puzzled look on their faces that tells me they can hear the tinkle, tinkle too and realising it’s not the heavenly choir tuning up before I pay them an unplanned visit suddenly fills me with confidence again. I never thought that would happen while laying on a floor with a swollen jaw and a gun barrel pushed against my head.

“Chinatown’s a good place to hide,” I say, stalling once more. “Everyone’s got a different way of representing sounds anyway so it’s the perfect cover. Clever.”

“And they’re so good at removing stains downstairs too,” he tells me, smirking. I think I’m out of time but Boom-Boom’s suddenly realised that all’s not well with Fritz or Herman here.

The gun’s not digging in so much now while everyone’s straining to pick out that noise so I shout “Now!” as loud as possible and hope I’m right. It might surprise you to know I am sometimes and lucky for me this is one of them.

The door to one side of me plings open, splintering in the frame and showering everyone with slivers of wood. That’s quickly followed by a handful of uniformed policemen who overpower Boom-Boom and my European captors in a short scuffle with only a few distracting honks and beeps.

“You lot couldn’t have made more noise coming up those stairs if you’d tried,” I tell them as I’m helped up while nursing my sore face.

“Didn’t seem like it would make much difference,” answers Inspector Alliteration who comes in at the rear of my rescuers.

“You’re scum, Inspector. You used me as bait. You followed me knowing my contacts would get results when your ones wouldn’t. Danny The Weasel was killed. I could have been killed too.”

“I thought you knew. It’s what you do best, Rake,” he says, smiling. “Here, take this.” He passes me a bottle of Scotch. I guess it’s from his class. “Remember to add a little water,” he adds as he dabs some sweat off his forehead and steps out.

There’s plenty of water outside where it’s still raining so I follow him out and then head off home, whooping through the puddles on the way. Not in a happy way.

I’m not a vacation person but I’ve got no qualms in accepting gratuities and I’ve never been this far south before. It’s warmer and the rain is noticeably absent. I miss the rain. Never thought I’d say that.

This hotel’s called the Hotel Luxurious. If I had to describe it in one word then luxurious is the right one to use. I’ve stayed in hotels in the city from time-to-time. This one doesn’t have the stains, the stickiness, or that smell, and there’s a constant, gentle hum of quiet, happy talking from the men and women dotted around the lounge. Soft, clean chairs. Lots of smiles. Bright, open windows. The clinking of real crystal tumblers. One of them is mine. There’s an inch of dark, smoky malt in the bottom of it. I’m savouring it. It’s the only thing I don’t instinctively hate about this whole place.

“That’s some outfit you have,” says the lady in the off-white trouser suit across from me.

She’s not wrong. I didn’t pack for this climate and my fit-in-anywhere clothes from back home are now fit-in-anywhere-but-here.

“I won a vacation,” I tell her and then fill in some more details when pressed. It seems the city has some well-off individuals and one of them was seemingly grateful to the tune of some time off at my resolution to the recent simile heist. There’s something you don’t do to gift horses and that’s why I’m here. Just a little unprepared is all.

“How strange and delightful!” she exclaims. Strange, I’ll agree with. “And how are you finding Literalville?” she asks.

I tell her I haven’t left the hotel yet. The plane touched down late last night. I slept and this is my first morning in the vacation spot. Her eyes widen and she smiles a knowing smile to herself. “It takes some getting used to,” she continues. “If you want a private tour then give me a call.”

She hands me a card. There’s a number but no name on it. I make a show of nodding appreciation and pocket it in my inside jacket pocket. The one with the hole in the bottom. Old, lonely dears are the same the world over.

*

I don’t like Literalville and I’m beginning to wonder whether my paid-for vacation wasn’t some punishment rather than reward. Maybe it’s because there’s no criminal element obvious to the eye. A guy like me would be lost down here. What could I do? Clean streets, clean air, families strolling around. I haven’t seen a policeman or heard either a scream or a pistol going off since I arrived. But that’s not the worst of it.

Literalville. Strange name, but apt. Very apt. Take that hot dog vendor on the promenade down by the beach for instance. Nobody wants to see a labrador sweltering inside several woollen cardigans on a day like this. On any day even. The vendor looked at me like I was mad when I asked what was going on. Some couple gave me a wide berth and bought a chihuahua sealed in a sleeping bag.

Then there were the posters on the walls down by the college. A spate of lost virginities, apparently. Happy kids and rewards for the unrecoverable. I’m not a parent but that just doesn’t seem right.

And now this: a crowd gathered to watch a boxing match put on for tourists. Two fit men in a ring packaging souvenirs against the clock and each other. This place is a happy nightmare and I’m wondering if I should have had a more substantial breakfast and skipped the malts.

*

“Truly awful, isn’t it?”

Is she talking about Literalville or the fact that she’s laying across my bed in my hotel room while I’m standing in the doorway?

“Literalville,” she says slowly. “I hate it and you seem like the sort of person who’d hate it too. Am I wrong?”

The dame from the lounge this morning isn’t wrong. I just wish she could be not wrong somewhere else. I tell her she’s right and I step into the room fully, leaving the door open behind me. It’s a long shot that she’ll take the hint. There’s a moment of silence while I make my way to the dresser and pour a drink from the decanter on it. I’m thinking.

“You’re the first author I’ve met,” I tell her when I turn back. She hasn’t moved but there’s a smile on her face.

“Rick Rake, private detective. I do believe you’re even better than I imagined.”

“You had to have been affected by the similes heist. Only so many professions were and you fit the bill of only one that makes sense and enough money to send some poor schmuck down the coast on a private case. So now I’ve had a day of tormented reward at your expense and I guess you think I owe you.”

“That I do Mr Rake. We’re business people and you’re certainly not a vacation person so why don’t we skip the verbal fencing and get down to details?”

Maybe it’s the cumulative effects of decent malt whiskey but I’m warming to her. I close the hotel room door and tell her to begin.

*

Connie’s right about a lot of things. She’s right about me not liking vacations and she’s right about me preferring to earn money doing what I’m good at. She’s right about there being a criminal underworld in Literalville too. I should have known it was literally an underworld.

It’s dark in the sewers and catacombs, as you know. Somehow it feels more appealing than topside. It feels more like the city. There are a lot of bad people down here. That’s the thing about crime; it doesn’t attract a good element.

There’s a man looking for a fight if the placard he’s holding up is to be believed. I don’t want to help him. I’m getting shifty looks from the residents as it is. That’s the thing: I’m an outsider. I’m the only one she knows who might be able to get the job done. Connie explained that she couldn’t approach Double-Crossing Charlie Dodds or Mickey “The Failure” Farmer to get her manuscript back. I can’t imagine why.

“I need a lead to track down a stolen manuscript,” I tell the scrawny lowlife in front of me. I hear he’s nicknamed “The Rat” and he doesn’t disappoint me. Much. It’s an old lead. Cracked leather. A collar on the end and a discoloured tag with “Fido” engraved on it. I should have known better. Then again …

*

“You again!”

The hot dog vendor remembers me. I shake the lead at him and see he remembers it too. I almost tell him to start playing ball but catch myself. I haven’t got the time to wait for some sporting activity to play itself out. I’m thinking about leashing the guy and taking him for a gentle run to see if I can jog his memory enough to let me know what I’m after. I’m getting the hang of this dreadful place.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he cries, gathering up an alsation in a rug distressed by our altercation. I don’t believe him but it doesn’t matter.

“That’s okay Benny,” says a quiet voice behind me. “This dick will be leaving soon.”

There’s a weedy guy wearing a turtleneck sweater flanked by two gorillas in monkey suits. That’s more nature than I ever wanted to see up close.

“I’m after a manuscript on behalf of its owner,” I tell the speaker. He knew who I was so I’ve got a feeling he knows this too already.

“I’m well aware why you think you’re here Mr Rake but I’ve got some bad news in that respect.” I don’t like the sound of this. If I lived here all the time then right about now I’d put my fingers in my ears so there could be no mistaking how I felt. It’s a good thing I’m from the city so I can hear the explanation instead.

“I’m Connie’s brother. You, unfortunately, are the victim here. There is no manuscript; there never was. You’re not the first to be dragged down here and you won’t be the last. I’m very sorry but I’m going to have to insist you leave now.”

He carries on and tells me about Connie’s life and their family history. It looks like I’m not getting paid. And I’m never going to learn to be a vacation person if they all turn out like this.

Connie. Short for Congenital Liar. Born to the wealthy Mr and Mrs Cruel-Bastards. Brother of Andy Plotpoint. Residents of Literalville, all of them. I hate Literalville.

Like this guy.

He’s wet and dripping all over my floor. I’m not worried because it’s been dripped on before. It’s always raining in the city. That’s a decent overcoat he’s wearing and the hat looks new. The water’s running off the felt in a stream onto my floorboards and making one heck of a racket. You’d think he could have shook himself dry on the way up to the office but I guess some people just have no manners.

It’s hard to work up the enthusiasm to enter into conversation with inconsiderate bums like this and, besides, it’s morning so I let him shake himself dry and pat himself down while I draw on my cigarette and finger the rim of my coffee mug. He’s looking at me now. Probably wondering why he picked me. I’m wondering that too but I’m a halfway decent detective and I’m already detecting a few things about him now that his coat is unbuttoned and I’ve got a good look at his shoes.

“You Rick Rake the private dick?”

Hey! He broke the silence. Good going. I nod back by way of reply and then add “And you’re a cop. Hooray, we all know one another.”

“Your reputation for a dour and dry demeanour is deserved I see,” he says, lowering himself into my client chair. He’s getting it wet but I’m trying not to notice.

“Well, I don’t know you but I’m betting you’re known as Inspector Alliteration.”

It gets a wry smile from him which is good. Those angry cops who fly off the handle at the slightest jibe can be real painful to work with and I really don’t work well in the mornings.

“You been using any similes in your inner monologue this morning Rake?”

That stops me. It’s not your usual opening sentence and I’m not entirely sure what to say; not a good thing for someone in my profession. I try to hide my surprise my putting on my thinking face. It looks like he’s buying it. I think back.

“You know what? I haven’t.”

“Try it now. Humour me.”

That’s a difficult request to just do and I’m a little distracted wondering whether I should change my coffee or cigarettes brand but I give it my best shot. There are puddles forming on the floor under the cop like clear jam on a flat thing.

What?

I think dropping my cigarette in the coffee tips off my visitor that I’ve just been shocked but to his credit he doesn’t laugh and that wry smile’s gone and been replaced by a tight-lipped grimace.

“Awful, wasn’t it? It’s happening citywide,” he says and then goes on to explain. Overnight there was a heist at the Simile Warehouse. All the best ones stolen in the space of a few hours with no witnesses. I ask where the beat cops who usually patrol the area were and learn that a massive fire a few blocks across at the Expletive Lockup kept everyone distracted.

“So there’s been some damage to the expletives too?” I ask with some dismay. “Scum of a bench!” Maybe the graffiti in the alleyways will improve but it sure won’t make my job any simpler. Sometimes you need to swear at someone to solve a case.

“Well, I didn’t do it,” I say but I’m pretty certain I’m not a suspect. He confirms that and gets to the gist of his visit.

“We’ve got every available person out checking into this. Who set the fire? Who stole the similes? Someone has to know. My job? Deputise the dicks, and that means you.”

He wants me to do police work and I’m guessing it won’t be for police pay but this is one of those cases where you feel to just have to do your civic duty. Besides, a life without decent similes will be like a butterfly with tiny, grey wings. Urk!

*

“Is that a new hat?”

It’s hours later but I’m not sure how many. Walking the streets in the rain will take away your perception of the passage of time. The sky’s a stony grey and you can’t tell where the sun would be if the clouds were missing but I’m sure it’s the afternoon now. I’m feeling perkier despite the cold and the rain running down my hair, inside my coat collar, and onto my shirt. That’s the afternoon for you. I’m an afternoon person.

So far I’ve been to see Danny The Weasel and “Hats” Hoolihan. Danny knew nothing but he’d heard about the news all right. Hoolihan was a wreck; he’d been drinking hard and drinking the hard stuff. I knew he’d been trying to get out of the numbers game for a while now and working on his own inner monologue to branch out but he’s not a smart guy when you peel away the layers and the simile problem took a nasty toll. Poor old Hoolihan. I took one of his hats. He was too drunk to notice.

Which is why Jackie “J.J.” Johnson is posing the interrogative.

“Forget about the hat,” I say, jabbing a finger into his chest. J.J. is one of those guys that nature has decided doesn’t deserve muscles and he bruises easily. I’m not a tough guy but I play one on the streets. “What do you know about the heist over at third last night?”

J.J.’s acting weird. He’s playing with a book of matches in his left hand like a nun molesting a ping-pong ball. Urgh! Yeah, and that smirk on his face; I don’t like it. Like a mouse with a smirk implant. Flip!

“Heist? What heist Ricky? I don’t know anything about a heist.” Ricky? He never calls me Ricky. J.J. calling me Ricky is like the Pope body-popping. What the heck is body-popping? This is hurting my brain.

And I think I’m seeing it. I think I’m seeing how this all fits together. But I’m not seeing that brick in the sock because of it and that’s a real shame because J.J.s sneering face isn’t a pretty last sight.

*

I’ve been in enough trunks to know when I’m in one again. My right eye feels swollen and sore and I’ve got a cramp in my wrist. There’s a knack to tying someone up and whoever won the lottery and got me doesn’t have it.

It’s noisy and warm in a trunk but you don’t mind that so much as feeling every bump in the road. Make that: mud track. I’m hoping that because I’m being taken off somewhere that it’s not to die. J.J. and his invisible accomplice could have finished me off in the alley. The rain’s got a way of washing away minor inconveniences like evidence.

It’s a puzzle but one I should be let in on in a minute or so because it feels like the car’s coming to a stop. I’m entertaining the old kick-out and leap into action when the trunk opens but it’s not a serious thought. Chances are I’ll be outnumbered and only earn myself a swollen and sore left eye to form a matching pair.

“No sudden moves Ricky,” comes the muffled voice from outside my temporary tomb. I’m thinking of doing the opposite. Play dead. I can hear the key in the lock but I can’t stop myself from opening my good eye as the blast of cold air hits me when the trunk pops. It’s like a snowman blowing on sunburnt cheeks but far better than that lousy description.

It’s dark out and the rain’s down to a drizzle and I’ve just got a feeling that we’re high up somewhere. Difficult to say how I know especially from my curled-up position but there’s almost a taste in the air that gives it away.

“Looks like you asked the wrong person the wrong question, Mr Detective,” comes a voice I don’t know. It’s the guy whose silhouette is standing next to J.J. I blink to pick out features but a spot of rain finds my good eye perfectly and the world becomes a commercial for vaseline. At least the metaphors are still working.

I’m manhandled onto the ground into a kneeling position. Shoot! They’re both wearing gloves and that probably means this is personal and my guess about not dying was way off. I’ve got a fairly good idea where we are now that I can hear a little easier.

“I’m surprised you didn’t just drive the car off the cliff with me still in it.”

“And walk back in this weather? Are you crazy?”

He’s got a point. Still, there must have been a reason why I wasn’t finished off earlier. Or maybe I’m deluding myself. Sometimes you forget that criminals are dumb when it gets right down to it.

“Do I get your name before my imminent demise?” I ask gesturing with my head at the man I can’t place. It’s cliched to heck and I admit it: I’m clutching at straws, delaying the inevitable. Hey, last-minute rescues do happen every now and then.

I can make out the two figures looking at one another. I bet they’re smiling but it’s pitch black out here. Night on a cliff edge. I don’t mind nights usually but I’d swap this one for a morning any time. There’s a scratching sound and then a flash!

I know what you’re thinking. That last-minute rescue. What a cop-out. Yeah, if I was a lucky detective that would be the case but here and now it just means two people are lighting up cigars.

“Don’t even think of asking for one because you won’t get one,” says the second guy. And as he draws in on his stogie the glow from the end lights up his features like a lighthouse lighting up a dark cave. “Brains” Bellamy. He sounds a little different but the face is still the same.

“Shouldn’t you be in jail?” I ask. I know the answer. He should. I helped put him away. As I recall it wasn’t that difficult. Brains earned his nickname from literally leaving his calling card after appearing in a bank job which co-starred a number of innocent deaths. His particular calling card featured his home address. Smart. Like a stupid plant. Flaming Nora!

“A little dedication to improving oneself goes a long way Rake,” grins Bellamy without taking the cigar from his mouth. “You see, I just happened to share a cell with Ronnie K. You know Ronnie don’t you Rick?”

I did. He was the king of irony. Every caper he was involved in had some wonderfully inventive twist of ironic fate attached. Which, ultimately, made it easy to bait a trap and catch him. Ironically. I was putting the pieces together quickly now. Maybe the hardening rain cooling my exposed head in this precarious position was speeding up my reasoning processes.

Brains had finally learnt that his nickname was a joke from Ronnie and had then dedicated his time to escaping. He probably had help doing that but, once outside, he kept focussed and realised that if he was to stay free and continue his life of crime he’d need to get smart – real smart – quick. And if he could hinder the cops and detectives who’d caught him in the first place? Well, so much the better. Hence the similes. In his possession he could compare things to other things in a way he’d never imagined before allowing him to come up with jobs so devious that a police force and army of dicks confused by quick, random actions that reminded them of something else but only in bizarre manners would be rendered useless. It had worked on me in the alley.

I’m looking at the cliff edge because the wind is blowing that way and sheltering my eye is allowing me to finally see clearly for the first time in hours. I don’t know why but J.J. strides up and punches me full in the face. Maybe it’s to look big and strong. Maybe he thinks I’m disrespecting my predicament by looking away. I don’t think he’s going to like the disrespect I show his punch.

“J.J., get yourself to a gym if you’re going to try that,” I say. Goading! While tied up on a cliff edge about to die. I must be crazy. But why not? “Did you take my hat?” I ask. J.J. reaches up instinctively like a baby grabbing for a necklace. Sheesh.

“It suits me better than you dick,” he laughs. I feel it needs an “and you won’t need it where you’re going” tacked on for good measure and tell him so. He steps forward and kicks me this time. Mother fudge cakes! Yeah, that hurt a lot. I’m chewing wet grass now.

“Maybe we should re-christen you with the name ‘Brains’ before we leave” says Bellamy, puffing out a great cloud of smoke.

Have you ever watched smoke? Really watched smoke? It forms such complex patterns yet it’s following simple rules and it’s all quite predictable given enough dedication. Like monkeys flinging crap in the zoo. No, not like that! Like lemons rolling down the street into a sewer. No, darn it to Holland! Like criminals. Yes, that’s it.

J.J.s too close to me and I’m in a position now where I can strike at him. Big mistake J.J. I swing my legs across the ground and catch him at knee level. Nature really doesn’t like him and he flies – literally flies – to his left. To his left is where the cliff edge is. Sorry J.J. If he’s screaming as he’s falling then the rush of blood to my head is blocking out the sound and all I’m concentrating on is Bellamy’s cigar. Man, that tip is bright. He’s sucking it like an aardvark who’s discovered the last source of aardvark honey. Gah!

Panic. Not mine you might be pleased to hear. It looks like J.J. caught Brains as he left the general area and now our simile-stealing scumbag is off-balance. I’m cold and wet, my eye hurts, my wrist hurts, my shoulder hurts where J.J. kicked it but watching Bellamy flail and topple over the side is like watching a chocolate cake slide down a hill into your hands. I know, but who cares!

I can hear the rain now. I’d blocked it out for a while but it’s filling up my ear and I’m smiling. I don’t know how I’m going to make it back to the city in my condition but I can shelter in the car overnight if needs be.

“I’ll tell you where the similes are!”

Bother! How didn’t I realise that Bellamy was alive and hanging onto the edge by his fingertips? I hadn’t heard anything about a job at the Obvious Endings Emporium. Maybe I was out longer than I realised.

I’m looking down at his face and beyond it the rocks and sea. I know he was going to kill me but I’m no murderer. Looking around there’s nothing with which to help pull him up. What did I expect? It’s a cliff.

“Pull me up!” he shouts.

“Tell me where the similes are!” I yell back.

“Warehouse 6 on the South Dock! Hurry!”

I grit my teeth. “I’m sorry ‘Brains’ but I can’t help you. My hands are tied.”

“Was that a joke?” he screams. I feel his pain. I hadn’t wanted to say it.

*

I never had a last-minute rescue and neither did Brains. Difference is, he never came up with a way to escape at the end. That’s what I’ve just finished telling Inspector Alliteration and his pals and maybe that’s what happened.

The similes were exactly where they were supposed to be and getting them back was like manna from heaven. But I hear it’s going to take a while to repair the damage to the Expletive Lockup and we won’t get any new ones in until the insurers have finished their investigations. Bunch of shunts.