The Case of the Locked Room by Leah R Cutter

Author:Leah R Cutter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knotted Road Press

I spent the rest of that afternoon looking at the victim. He was a small, two-bit forger, known for passing bad paper. The cops figured he’d pissed off the wrong mark.

I wasn’t too sure. The setup seemed too elaborate for just an angry customer. And despite how artfully the crime had been committed, it still felt impersonal.

I’d think that if you were going to make a statement about someone who passed bad paper, you’d break their hands or something.

But according to the coroner’s report, there hadn’t been a struggle. No bruises. The coroner guessed that the victim had been knocked unconscious, possibly drugged, then tied up and suffocated.

I didn’t really have any informants in forging circles. And believe me, criminals ran in cliques tighter than high-society women. While the tennis set would sometimes associate with those whose husbands were bankers or lawyers, forgers never met up with bank robbers, who also never hung out with gambling grifters, and so on through the myriad circles of crime.

I still put some feelers out, sent around messengers to some guys I knew.

Could have knocked me off my desk chair with a feather when one of the messengers came back right away. It seemed that Jimmy the Skunk knew a guy named Harrison. We arranged to meet later that evening.

I caught a quick bite at the bar down on the corner—pastrami that might have come from a cow and not a vat, served on a not-too stale rye bread, along with a side of sauerkraut and one of the best dill pickles I’d had in a long time.

Thus fortified, I made my way to the eastern side of the city, to the Red Dog Bar and Grill.

I was glad I’d already eaten, just from the looks of the place. It was the kind of bar that on Earth would be surrounded by motorcycles and beater trucks. Though it was carved out of moon rock like all the rest of the buildings, the walls had been treated with something to make them looked weathered and ill-used, like a dusty saloon that had seen better days.

Central always dimmed the lights in the tunnels to signify night. It wasn’t healthy for people to be exposed to bright light twenty-four/seven. However, the tunnel that the Red Dog was in was probably permanently dim. It was just that level of dive, you know?

It sat apart from its neighbors, with a cartoon dog done in red neon across the front, chasing after a mug of beer. The front windows were all shaded over, and a big bruiser sat out front.

I sauntered over, glad that I’d changed out of my suit jacket into something more appropriate, a plain white T-shirt that had seen better days, tan dungarees, and black boots. I’d messed up my hair a bit. Since Florence preferred it long, I had let it grow out a bit. So it was an orange mess, with curls sticking out everywhere.

I put on my best “tough” face and sauntered toward the door.

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