Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #6 by Marvin Kaye

Author:Marvin Kaye [Kaye, Marvin]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: mystery, magazine, sherlock holmes
Publisher: Ingram Distribution
Published: 2011-09-02T04:00:00+00:00

T

he next day, I called in sick again at work, grabbed a pair of binoculars and went back to Queens. This time, I found a building a few blocks away from the factory. I went up the fire escape.

From the roof of this building I waited for hours till someone opened the shutters of the fourth floor window I’d seen the night before. And then I saw them. Rows and rows of women working at sewing machines. Dressed in shabby clothes, their arms and hands moved almost mechanically. Their faces were hidden in the dim shadows created by the weak lightbulbs that lit their workspace.

On the train back to Manhattan, I thought about Tim’s job at the sweatshop. It made sense now. Cheap immigrant labor working impossible hours to turn out toys. They probably paid the women almost nothing. And what had Tim done? Had he been a foreman or a supervisor? No wonder he was making money. They were paying for his silence as well as his work. How had Tim gotten himself involved with all this?

I went back to my apartment and fed Fluffy. “What was going through Tim’s mind?” I said, as I watched her eat her canned food.

I stared at the little blue toy dog I’d gotten out of the trash barrel and wondered what I should do. Then I put the toy into my pocket and decided to go out for a walk.

As I headed east, I thought about Tim again. You’re convinced you know a person and then you discover that he’s someone else. It’s enough to make you reconsider everything. I passed a toy store and went inside. I took the blue dog out of my pocket and asked to see the manager.

“Yes,” said a middle-aged man, wearing a jacket and necktie.

“Do you sell toys like this?” I asked, holding up the dog.

“Yes,” said the manager, “everyone carries this brand, it’s —” Then he gave me a strange look and and put on a pair of glasses. “Where’d you get this?” he asked.

“It belongs to a friend of mine.”

“Well, tell your friend he’s been taken. This is a fake.” He glared at me and then said, “It’s a counterfeit. See, look at this label. The stitching is all wrong. And feel the material, it’s a cheap copy, a knock-off. These are sold on the street. It’s a shame, really. They’re brought into the country illegally and passed off as the real thing. Then the real manufacturer has to raise prices to compensate for lost revenue. It costs consumers millions. And it hurts my business, too.”

I took the dog and shoved it back into my pocket.

“Tell your friend to go to the police,” said the manager.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’ll mention it to him.” Then I walked out of the store.

At Tim’s funeral near Tarrytown, there were only ten people, friends of his from acting classes he’d taken over the years. All of them agreed that they hadn’t heard from him in months. After the

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