Chapter
1
Reginald Pinkerton Armitage III
Sunday morning I was riding uphill, on my way to meet a new client. His house was on the edge of town. But it might as well have been the edge of the world. A neighborhood of long driveways and fancy cars. The houses came in three sizes: big, bigger, and just plain ridiculous.
I arrived at 86 Baker Street, snapped down the kickstand, and took a look around. There was a lot of around to look at. The front lawn was so perfect it could have been the infield grass at Yankee Stadium. The bushes looked like they’d been trimmed with a pair of small scissors and a tweezer. The house itself was a little bigger than just plain ridiculous.
I glanced down at my faded jeans and beat-up sneakers. I tucked in my shirt. Pulled down my hat. And did three quick push-ups on the doorbell.
Gong-gong-gong, it chimed.
The thick door opened without a sound.
That was the first time I laid eyes on Reginald Pinkerton Armitage III. He was shorter than me, though he stood as straight as a soldier. Reginald was dressed in crisp khakis and a sweater vest over a button-down shirt. He wore a tidy bow tie and his slick black hair was held in place by gooey gel. With his right pinkie, Reginald pushed a pair of round eyeglasses from the tip of his nose closer to his face.
He eyed me with all the warmth of a sick goldfish. “And you might be…?”
“I might be Jigsaw Jones,” I answered. “At least that’s the name on the card.”
I handed him my business card.
He glanced at the card, looked me over, and stepped aside. “Do come in.”
So I did.
With a voice as formal as a tuxedo, he asked, “May I take your hat?”
“Take it where?”
That made him blink. “Off your head, naturally.”
“The hat goes where I go,” I replied. “It’s a package deal.”
He frowned. “Your shoes are filthy. Place them on the mat by the door.”
I didn’t make a move. Instead, we stood staring at each other like two cowboys in a showdown. Meanwhile, silence rolled by like a tumbleweed.
“I meant to say, would you place your shoes on the mat … please?” Reginald blurted.
“Say ‘pretty please’ and put a cherry on top, and I’ll think about it,” I replied.
Chapter
2
Truce
Reginald’s face flushed a deep red. “I don’t care for your tone,” he scolded.
I replied with a long, slow yawn. Ho-hum.
Reginald brushed past me, yanked open the door, and scowled. “Please leave now,” he demanded.
“Loosen up, Reggie,” I replied. “We’re just getting to know each other.”
“That’s Reginald,” he snapped. “And I don’t care for your lack of manners.”
“My manners?” I gasped. “Tell you what, let’s start over. Only this time, maybe you try to work up a smile. You called me, remember?”
Reginald’s eyes widened in shock. He wasn’t used to getting his toes stepped on. He stammered, “I … I daresay … yes, perhaps … quite right, quite right.”
He pulled off his glasses, fumbled with them for a few seconds, then placed them back on his nose. “Perhaps we’ve gotten off to a bad start.” He thrust out a hand. “My name is Reginald Pinkerton Armitage the Third. But if you must, you may call me … Reggie.”
A weak smile drifted across his face.
I took his hand and shook it. “Jones,” I said. “Jigsaw Jones. Private eye.”
Reginald gestured down the long hallway. “Shall we … er…” He glanced once again at my feet. “I’m awfully sorry, but it’s a house rule.”
Well, my sneakers were muddy. Stepping on the heel, I slipped out of one sneaker, then the other. I was glad to see my socks matched. Too bad my right big toe poked through like a beached white whale.
Again, Reginald’s lips headed south in a frown.
“Would you care for a pair of slippers?” he offered.
“No thanks,” I replied. “Never on weekends.”
“I see you’re a wiseguy,” he observed.
“Only when I need to be,” I replied. “Look, Reginald Pinkerton Armitage the Third. You told me on the phone that it was an emergency. I dropped everything, hopped on my bike, and rode all the way out here. Up three big hills, against the wind.” I paused, a little weary. “You got any grape juice?”
“Grape juice?”
“How about just a few grapes?” I suggested. “I’ll stomp on ’em myself.”
This time, Reginald smiled. A real, honest-to-goodness smile. “All right, then. I’ll instruct Madge to prepare refreshments. You’re funny, Jones. I am beginning to like you.”
“I’m beginning to like myself, too,” I mumbled. “Lead the way, Reginald. I’ll tag along behind.”
Reginald started down the hallway. “We’ll sit in the library,” he informed me. “We can talk about the case in private there.”
Reginald brought me to a large paneled room, then left to “inquire” about refreshments. It was the kind of room you see in old black-and-white movies—before you switch the channel. Tall bookcases rose to the ceiling. A large desk filled one corner of the room. A few high-backed armchairs were placed here, there, and everywhere. Fancy reading lamps sat beside each one. A dusty gray cat lay snoozing on the rug, warmed by slanting rays of sunlight. A lazy ceiling fan pushed the air around.
Reginald returned, carrying a silver tray. “Milk and cucumber sandwiches,” he announced.
“Oh joy,” I grumbled.
Reginald sat across from me. “I’d like to begin by asking you a few questions.”
“Shoot.”
He glanced at my business card. “Where is your partner, Mila Yeh?”
“She’s tickling the ivories,” I answered.
Reginald raised an eyebrow.
“A piano lesson,” I explained. “I’ll give her the facts later.”
“It’s just you and me, then,” Reginald replied. “How splendid.”
“Yeah, ain’t it nice,” I cooed. I eyed the tray of cucumber sandwiches and decided against it.
It wasn’t a hard call to make.
I was hungry. But I wasn’t that hungry.
Copyright © 2002 by James Preller
