'The Fashion House Incident'

By Phineas Redux

—OOO—

—O—

Summary:— Fiona ‘Fay' Cartwright & Alice ‘Al' Drever are private detectives in an East Coast American city, in the 1930's. They are asked to investigate a case of business theft at an international fashion house.

Caution:— There is a certain amount of light swearing in this story.

—O—

Story 11 of the 'Drever & Cartwright' series
1. The Packer Building Incident.
2. The Fowler St. Incident.
3. The Pier 7 Incident.
4. The Elevated Rail Incident.
5. The Charioteer Insurance Co. Incident
6. The Grand Banks Hotel Incident
7. The Vanishing Girl Incident
8. The R-103 Incident.
9. The Stolen Sappho Incident
10. The Compton Trial Incident
11. The Fashion House Incident
12. The Lost Christmas Present Incident
13. The Meiklewood Legatees Incident
14. The Film Set Incident

—O—

The ‘ New World Bon Ton ' was a luxurious magazine, filled with multi-coloured fashion plates of the latest clothing designs printed using the extremely expensive pochoir method; and imported from France, the seat and central pivot of Haute Couture in the modern world; or, at least, the world as it revolved on this rather chilly Monday morning of 4 th December 1933. The cold, indeed icy, wind blowing in off the ocean sent a shiver down the spines of everyone hurrying along the sidewalks of Delacote City, NH. Alice Drever and her partner Fiona Cartwright had only just dashed into the large bookshop on Gloucester Road, out of the Arctic conditions, to peruse of all things the present fashion magazine—but they had their reasons.

“ Wowza , look'it that. Bet that costs a dam' fortune.”

The women were standing at the magazine shelves, explicitly the ladies fashion section; and Alice was already lost in amazement, tinged with the green-eyed Goddess. Fiona, on the other hand, was made of sterner stuff; holding her appetite for new and costly dresses well under control.

“Yeah, see there? At the bottom of the page.” The black-haired critic pointed with an elegant finger. “$135 and, Jesus! , $165. God , who in their right mind's gon'na shell out dough like that, for a skirt an' short jacket?”

“People who have that kind'a dough, dear.” Alice could pursue a logical argument with the best. “Those ladies who swan about the streets in their Isotta Fraschini's or Delahaye's. Y'know, the kind who wouldn't miss the odd two or three thousand dollars.”

“Wish I was one, for sure.” Fiona essayed a tinge of contempt; knowing the effort was useless. “An' don't you go gettin' any high-falutin' ideas. We don't make so much in the detective business y'can throw it away on rags like them, doll.”

“Hey, stop complainin', will you.” Alice sniffed with a refined air, handing the offending missive over to her tall partner. “Here, you can toddle over t'the counter an' buy the dam' thing—it only costs four bucks.”

“ Four—! ”

But the brunette part of Fiona's life had already shot off towards the novel section; where, she had earlier explained to her heartmate, she was in hopes of finding the latest Ethel Lina White; a tome luxuriating under the title ‘ Some Must Watch '. When Fiona had asked, accompanied by a wholly unnecessary dirty snigger, ‘ watch what? ”, Alice had merely sneered worldlessly at this lack of literary taste.

A couple of minutes later saw them dash back across the breezy sidewalk to clamber hurriedly into Alice's Plymouth coupe. She pointed the car's nose down Gloucester and revved noisily as she steered into the traffic; this being her normal manner of scaring the passing vehicles witless, thereby offering her a chance to slip into the flow unhindered; Fiona's snarly grumbles falling, of course, on steadfastly deaf ears.

Back in their office suite on the 5 th floor of the Packer Building, on the corner of 12 th Street and Rosemartin Road, they made short work of casting an eye over the morning's newly arrived mail and sorting out their appointments after their short absence—made necessary as a result of the letter delivered by courier just after 9.00am that morning. This daily routine being, as usual, carefully managed by their estimable secretary, Helen. Then, in their own private office, they set to work in earnest, discussing the contents and motif of the privately delivered summons.

“OK, let's hear the whole thing again, luscious.” Alice had settled comfortably on the cushioned chair beside her partner's, behind the long desk by the tall windows, and was now ready for action. “Let it rip.”

“ Gods , young girls today.” Fiona released a sigh which just failed to be a groan. “Any hopes o' growing-up anytime soon, Al? Right, the letter's from the House of Tyland—that's house with a capital H—who, goin' entirely by what their letterhead deigns t'inform the reader, are the premier fashion design company in the whole of the mighty US of A.”

“They don't hold back from coming forward, d'they.” Alice leaned over her paramour's shoulder to catch a better look at the document under consideration. “ Gods , fuschia typesetting for the title. Gosh, that looks awful; have they no sense of taste or design?”

“That's avant garde for ya, dearie.” Fiona shook her head dismissively. “Let's get on. It's signed Mathilde du Cherie which, I can't help thinkin', may not be the lady's actual birth-name—”

“ Har .”

“—in which she seeks our assistance on a matter of the utmost delicacy and secrecy.” Fiona glanced at Alice's head, nearly resting on her shoulder; took this golden opportunity to lean across to steal a quick kiss on the brunette's forehead, and returned empowered to the task in hand. “They being the foremost couture House in the land, Mathilde begs us to come to her HQ post-haste, quickly, as soon as we can, and without delay—”

“Wants t'tell us somethin' important, I'm guessin'.”

“—at which time she, Mathilde, will engage to make us au fait with one of the evilest underhanded attempts at piracy since Blackbeard hung up his cutlass and smoulderin' fuses. Appointment at eleven a.m. today—House of Tyland, 1325 Pataloc Avenue, Delacote City, NH.”

“Let's see, what've we got on our schedule? Oh, nuthin' important, isn't that dandy.” Alice dearly loved modern fashion in all its extravagant variation, and wasn't going to let this chance slip through her fingers. “Just think of it, Fay, top-rate fashion design; glorious models showin' off the latest outfits; superb colours, designs a la mode; an', of course, those all-important accessories, handbags, shoes, gloves,—Oh, I nearly forgot hats,—and, ummph , those delicate shimmerin' silk undies of all descriptions no proper lady can possibly live without. I'm up for it, darlin'. Of course it means a shocking waste of our working day, but I can suffer that, in the cause of law an' order. Wha'd'you say, darlin'?”

“I say you're sufferin' from an advanced case of hubris, that'll get ya in trouble one of these fine days.” Fiona delivered this put-down with all the satisfaction of Robespierre telling yet another aristocrat where he got off; then, as usual, admitted defeat under the light of her revered partner's chestnut eyes. “Oh, come on then. Sooner we get there, sooner this whole dam' thing'll be over. An' don't think for a moment, duckie, you're gon'na run wholesale through their order-book—we ain't got that kind'a dough, an' I won't let ya, so there. Come on, hoist your butt; I'm drivin' this time; at least I got some respect for fellow motorists.”

“ Hrrph. ”

—O—

The couture house on Pataloc Avenue was based in an old six-storey granite building dating from the turn of the century. A large sign ran along the façade, under the lintels of the first floor windows, proclaiming to one and all this was indeed the site of the famed fashion House of Tyland. On street level the main entrance sat back a few feet, under a portico, presenting a pair of glass double-doors to the aspiring customer; though any effort in opening these was negated by the presence of a tall brawny uniformed commissionaire who bowed everyone in and out with gorgeous style. Fiona merely gave the man a cold glance as she passed; though Alice, as was her wont, smiled politely at the giant.

Inside was a wide entrance hall; very much like an hotel's, but with rather more designer emphasis about it. On the far side ran a waist-high wooden counter, behind which stood a tall blonde clad in something quite extraordinary. Fiona walked up to examine this specimen with ill-concealed wonder.

“Hi, we're here t'see Miss du Cherie,—Miss Cartwright an' Miss Drever.” Fiona finally took her gaze from the diagonally striped coloured cotton dress behind the counter and raised her eyes to its icily calm owner. “ Arh ,—she knows we're comin'. An appointment, y'see.”

“I shall ring.” Her voice, cold and entirely impersonal, matching her manner exactly. “Hello, office? Miss Cartwright and Miss Drever for Miss du Cherie. Yes. Yes. Certainly. I hardly think so. If you insist. Is that wise? If you say so. Goodbye.”

The ice-maiden—reminding both Alice and Fiona at the same time of a Scandinavian Valkyrie with a grudge—cast an unappealing eye over the two visitors, clearly deciding in an instant that their sense of dress and style in no way measured up to House standards. Then the lady inclined her head, almost imperceptibly, towards the left-hand side of the hall.

“Elevator—fourth floor. Turn right, private Office, knock and enter, secretary will take care of you. Thank you.”

The last phrase being obviously a final dismissal, the detectives turned and made their way across the hall in the direction indicated.

“Stand-offish sort'a lady.” Alice pouted her lips censoriously. “Don't think she liked us.”

“Don't think she liked our common hoi-polloi clothes; not haute couture, y'know.” Fiona shrugged unconcernedly. “Damned if I care. Here it is, enter at your peril, lady. How does the phrase go— Abandon all hope, ye who enter here? ”

“Huh, come on, at least it's empty; an' goin' up, not down. Fourth, did she say?”

—O—

The centre of activity of the fashion house, on their entering, turned out to be a cross between a large office and a design-room. Several other men and women besides the actual owner were present, scurrying around apparently at random. Miss du Cherie met the detectives at the door and escorted them across the busy noisy room to a wide desk by the window.

The lady in overall command of the design House was by no means tall, but was exquisitely formed, in a slightly sub-Junoesque manner. Her ankle-length grass-green dress had all the hallmarks of in-house design and was worn with style and confidence. Miss du Cherie clearly embraced all the modern concepts of the woman going places and, judging by the sharp almost cold gleam in her dark brown eyes, meant to get there—pretty quickly.

“Please excuse all this activity, we're just finalising the Winter Collection, y'know.” Mathilde du Cherie spoke with a refined accent; which, however, showed no acquaintance with the French tongue but rather that of Nob Hill, Boston. At least she made no attempt to bluff her customers in this area. “Take these seats, if you please; they're from Sweden, y'know, quite à la mode. Thank you for arriving so swiftly, but it is indeed a matter of the utmost urgency.”

Alice, never one for being brow-beaten, made a drama of sitting comfortably and setting her long tweed skirt—store-bought, $18—in place, before raising her eyes to examine her client.

“Exactly how urgent? And why is it urgent at all?”

“It's the designs.” Miss du Cherie raised her hands to her face, under its cap of short shingled brown hair, clasping her cheeks in a show of restrained horror. “I've worked for months over these designs, all top-secret, y'see. Well, it has to be, in this cut-throat business. Last night we had a burglary. The night-watchman was coshed and the design-room broken into. The police—their Inspector Fletcher seemed a tough nut—found fragments of a shattered flash-bulb on the floor; so it seems someone photographed my designs. Terrible! Terrible!”

“Why so?” Fiona's calm contained voice cut across the nervous owner's tense outpourings like a glacier stream. “What's a few pics t'anyone?”

“Any pictures could be potentially fatal.” Miss du Cherie, who had remained standing by the edge of her desk looking worriedly across to the group of busy designers, shook her head decisively. “There is to be an international Winter fashion show in New York in three weeks time. All the most important Houses from America, of which we here at Tyland are foremost, will be participating; along with representatives from the major Parisian Houses. If another House stole my designs, even if only one or two, the end result could be disastrous.”

“But why?” Alice too could hardly see the danger involved.

“Whatever other House it was could send the designs out, on the catwalk, as their own.” Miss du Cherie paled visibly at this thought. “Of course, we would complain and argue, but fashion designs as such are notoriously hard to copyright; the end result would simply be stalemate, and the opposing House could go ahead and sell their stolen designs as their own work. My House would lose profit; but more seriously, standing in the fashion world. I simply must insist that the designs stolen should be stopped from being used by whichever House is behind the break-in. Money, of course, is no problem.”

Alice cast a quick glance at her partner, who also was frowning. This was, to their experienced eyes, seeming more and more like one of those crimes without a solution.

“Y'see, Miss du Cherie, there's some slight difficulty involved here.” Alice spoke quietly and evenly, trying to ease the disappointment as much as possible. “There are crimes; and then there are real crimes, if you catch my drift.”

“I don't follow.” Miss du Cherie favoured the brunette with a withering glance, nearly reaching outright contempt. “If a break-in allied to a physical assault, with designs being photographed and stolen, isn't a crime I would dearly like to know exactly where your watershed between mere child's play and actual crime lies.”

Fiona twisted uncomfortably in her chair; but before the black-haired warrior could rise to her defence Alice put out a calming hand to claim her partner's arm, then gazed with wide-open brown eyes at her interrogator.

“It's certainly a crime t'break-in t'someone's place of work, an' carry out an assault; there's no question there, you certainly got a bona-fide crime in that.” Alice, at this point, began to shake her head firmly. “But as to photographing designs, I can't see how that could possibly stand-up. Any sensible defence attorney'd laugh it out'ta court in minutes. I mean, were photographs taken at all? One broken flash-bulb is meaningless. Hell, the attorney might suggest it belonged to your firm, not his client. The guy might have stepped on it accidentally. An' then, even if he did photograph your designs, that just ain't any kind of a crime. And lastly, if whichever House it is that's responsible, actually utilizes your designs in their own dresses and what-nots, there simply isn't any kind'a comeback for you. There ain't nothing, as you've just admitted yourself, that you could legally do t'gain proper redress—if you'll pardon the expression. I mean, who's t'say where one person's designs stop an' another person's designs start? It just ain't possible.”

“The same bein' a matter of relative taste, y'see.” Fiona spoke up in defence of her partner. “There's no way, as I think you've already realised, you could make your overall primacy for any one design hold up legally in court. It just won't happen.”

“ Oh God! ”

“The best we could suggest is that we take the case; do some checking; and, if we finger those responsible, try t'stop them actually using the photographs.” Alice nodded as she ruminated on this possibility. “It's about the only route we can take, all things considered.”

“Yeah, y'see whoever did the breaking an' entering, an' photographing, might well be a freelance.” Fiona grinned as the likelihood of this crossed her mind. “He might still not have contacted any likely client yet. That'd give us time t'get on his tracks, an' maybe forestall his actions.”

“You mean you might regain the photographs before they had been passed to another House?” Miss du Cherie began to look as if hope had deigned to enter her presence for the first time that day. “That would be splendid; it would be tremendous, in fact. How long would such a course take? I cannot imagine the thief would hold-off selling-on the designs for more than a few days at most.”

“A few days is all we'd need, Miss du Cherie.” Alice stood and held out her gloved hand to the anxious proprietor. “OK, we'll take the case, an' see what we can do. But no guarantees, mind you.”

“No, no, certainly. I have complete confidence in you.”

“Right, we'll need some details about certain aspects of the case and of the clothes involved. All the usual stuff, y'know. Did the cops go into details about what they thought important?”

Miss du Cherie rose to her full height of five feet six and a half inches; glanced imperiously at both detectives; and sneered openly.

“Inspector Fletcher I find to be one of the most unprofessional officers in the Delacote City force.” She pressed her lips together censoriously. “How he has reached his present eminence I do not know. I tried to instil in him the seriousness of the situation; he was unaffected. I tried to explain the fine details of inter-House jealousy and attempted surveillance of opponents; he smirked, as if finding the whole thing humorous. I put forward my horror of the criminal nature of the whole debacle; he began to argue whether there had indeed been anything more than a mere burglarious entry, the thief simply looking for whatever he thought he could find. When I asked what the Police Department meant to do, he went off muttering that they'd do all in their power; though without, it was blatantly apparent to me, any real intention of putting himself about in the matter. No, I think we can safely ignore the police involvement in this case. Ladies, I put all my confidence in your actions. I wish you well; but, in a hurry, if you please. Now, about the details, I have here some of the original sketches—”

—O—

Back at their office in the Packer Building the two sat down at the long desk to consider their latest case, but mostly to ease their aching feet. Both had been trying out shoes with slightly higher heels than they were used to; and the first few hours of their day had pretty much shown them that their original, sensible flat brogues were the thing.

Fiona bent down with a heavy sigh; pulled the hem of her long tweed skirt up; grabbed her left shoe, unceremoniously pulled it off and threw it across the office; where it bounced off the far wall and skidded to a halt on the waxed floorboards.

“ Goddam! My whole foot hurts.” She cast a lowering glance at her brunette companion-in-pain. “That's the last time I believe ya when ya say heels are the in-thing. No they dam' well ain't; heels are the dam' out -thing, ducky. An' I'm speakin' from experience here.”

“OK, so heels aren't exactly easy on the feet when we're pounding the pavement.” Alice tried to slip out from under, whilst still retaining as much self-respect as she could muster at short notice. “I'm hurtin' here too, y'know. So it's back t'the flat brogues, I can take a hint. What're you thinkin' about this fashion thing, then?”

“I'm thinkin' we haven't a hope in Hades.” Fiona continued rubbing a sore spot on her heel. “Good thing we didn't ask for an advance; we're never likely t'see an end result significant enough t'rank one. An' I hate payin' money back.”

“Well, with these coloured sketches Miss du Cherie gave us at least we have a good idea of what may possibly be the focus of the thief's attention.” Alice had taken the bundle of large sheets of thick paper from her briefcase and spread them out over the desktop. “Gosh, fancy, ain't they?”

“Are they really meant for women t'actually wear?” Fiona leant over the one nearest her, gazing at the bright colours. “Is this even wearable at all; in public, I mean. Looks t'me if ya tried, Al, you'd have a cop's hand on your shoulder in record time.”

“Some are just concepts, I think.” Alice was musing on the representation of a long ankle-length evening gown in midnight-blue satin; with a décolletage that staggered the imagination. “Say, I think I'm in love with this, for starters.”

“Ya certainly ain't ever gon'na wear it, that's for sure; not if I have anything t'say in the matter, that is.” Fiona was outraged by the garment's unrestrained joie de vivre. “ Hell , you'd be showin' everythin' you'd got, from every direction. No, no, kiss that dream goodbye, darlin'. Look, this's much more, er , restrained and, er , decent.”

“Decent; huh , who wants decent?” Alice glanced at the sketch her companion had indicated. “Yeah, it's got its points, I'll give you that. A little conservative, but not at all bad. Why, y'gon'na shell out for a present, darlin' of my heart?”

“ Ha , give that dream up, too.” Fiona returned to the matter in hand with a flourish of her long black hair; which, of course, was even more acceptable to Alice's enthralled eyes than the prospect of the fantasy garment. “Why're ya lookin' at me like that?”

“ 'cos I love you, dear. Is that alright?”

There was a short pause in proceedings, while the tall black-haired woman made it perfectly clear to the brunette that, yes indeed, it was more than alright. Then, reluctantly, they finally got down to business.

“So, d'ya think we'll recognise these designs if we saw black an' white photos of ‘em?”

“Pretty much, yes.” Alice nodded, reaching into her handbag to retrieve her now badly needed lipstick. “They're all fairly easily recognisable; not the usual run-of-the-mill goods y'see in corner department stores. Who d'you think'll be behind it, then? Who d'we know in the dirty underworld of Delacote who goes in for photography?”

“There's Billy Baxter; he came up with some doozies last year.”

“Yeah.” Alice sniggered impolitely. “Nobody ever thought two naked women and a naked man could actually get into those positions, together—but Billy proved everyone wrong.”

“Yip, an' got himself a two-stretch in the can for imagination over an' above the legal requirement apropos public morals. But I don't think he's an Art person, d'you?”

“No.” Alice raised her eyebrows in answer to her lover's question. “Apart from the fact he's still inside, as we speak. Nah, someone else is indicated; so, who?”

There was a quiet moment in the office, as both detectives applied their minds to the problem. In their corner of society photography, as had just been established, generally meant images of scantily clad, if they were clad at all, ladies of easy virtue; sold surreptitiously in brown-paper folders for high prices. Curiously Art photography didn't seem to have much of a market, in their somewhat prescribed corner of society.

“Didn't Harry—”

“Nah, he emigrated t'Vermont last Spring. Ollie Carmichael, on the other hand,—”

“—fell over a ladies skirt-train at the races two months ago, an' broke his leg—still on crutches.”

“ Urrph . Marnie Holmes used a camera as a pretext t'push his way into the Longshoremen's Society Annual Ball six months ago, thinkin' t'bust their safe.”

“Yeah, an' the Longshoremen pushed him back out, pronto—through a first floor window—he's still in hospital, too. D'you recall George—”

“George Kirkland?”

“Nah, George Blane, he was sort'a involved peripherally with photography—”

“Darlin', because a hood takes a glass-plate camera an' tripod to a bank heist an' is too occupied with his light-meter t'start the getaway car in time, an' they're all caught by the cops, doesn't make him a photographic genius. He's banged up for ten, anyway. What about—”

“He died last Fall.”

“ Oh .”

“Esmeralda Cochrane though; now there's someone worth bearin' in mind, don't y'think? Loves havin' her portrait taken. Y'recall those pics of her friends, relatives, an', er , acquaintances plastered all over her living-room?”

“Someone who regularly handed out signed portrait photos of herself and her gang members, when they knocked over business premises all over the state, could never have been accused of being all present and correct in the top-storey. And the fact she now inhabits a nicely furnished apartment in the state Happy Home where the servants all wear white coats, would sort'a nullify her present attendance, don't you think?”

“ Hell , don't be so crotchety an' negative, will ya?” Fiona stuck her chin out stubbornly. “OK, who's left? Oh, I know; Katherine Talbot—she's so smart at gettin' glossy pictures of herself in those fancy monthly society magazines; yet the general public have no notion her money comes from dubious business enterprises that'd make their upper-crust hair go white if they only knew.”

“Kate went on a World Cruise a month ago, after Giustino ‘Jimmy' Favelli had a quiet word with her one afternoon. Y'know how irritated Jimmy gets when people try t'elbow their way into parts of his business. She won't be back for another three months, at least.”

This comprehensive overview of all the likely candidates having come up short, there returned a quiet calm in the large office. Only the sound of a lost fly, desperately seeking the North-West Passage at the other end of the long room, disturbed the peace as the women contemplated their problem.

Suddenly the peace was shattered by a cry from the brunette part of the establishment.

“ It! I've got It.”

“ God, Jeesus, an' Mary! ” Fiona jerked in her chair at this unexpected intrusion into her daydreams, glancing at her companion with concern. “Is it catchin'?”

“No, no, I've got It.”

“Darlin', Clara Bow has got ‘ It '. Us mere mortals just hav'ta soldier on with plain run o'the mill charm, if that.”

“ God , Fay, wake up.” Alice was shuffling with excitement, spreading the sketches on the table in all directions. “I've got the dam' answer t'all our worries.”

There interposed another short silence, during which Fiona finally determined that the flow of her lover's conversation had indeed reached a natural conclusion.

“Great Balls o'Fire, woman; well, tell me, for Go—”

“What we want is a rundown on who's interested in amateur photography in this town.” Alice caressed her brainwave, like a pet dog. “He surely couldn't have used photographic glass-plates in his camera when he broke in? Too bulky an' difficult t'handle and carry about; must'a been film-roll, like Kodak. An' he won't just take a roll of Kodak film to a shop t'be developed, will he? Takes too much time, an' anyway, that'd make the prints public; every developer, an' their sister, would see ‘em. He'd hav'ta develop them at home. That gives us some other clues, as well.”

Fiona sat forward, leaning her arms on the table, now looking at Alice with an intent gaze.

“Yep, there's a deal in what y're sayin'. Go on.”

“He can't live in a flop-house, or a rundown second-rate hotel, can he?” The brunette warmed to her theme. “Too public, couldn't develop film there. No, he'd need a hideout; or, at least, a private house. An' the materials, chemicals an' the right paper an' whatnot. So, we're lookin' for someone who'll know something about amateur photography; has the right material t'hand; and the privacy, wherever he's holed up, t'develop the film he took without interruption. What we need t'do is—”

“—go t'all the shops or stores in Delacote who stock film material.” Fiona was now reading from the same page as her partner. “See what's been sold lately, perhaps in some kind'a bulk. Maybe find out who's in'ta the game right at the moment, or has been in the last few weeks. Yeah, that'd work. So, who's first? Film stock? There ain't any Film Studios roundabout the city, y'know.”

Alice stood up in her excitement and went over to the window, which she opened widely at the bottom—thereby providing a Heaven-sent escape route for the despairing fly—and leaned out to take a deep breath of fresh cold air.

“God, it's chilly. Wouldn't be surprised if it snows soon.” She took another breath, then turned back to Fiona. “I'm not talkin' about canisters of thirty-five millimetre stock, just ordinary rolls o'film for ordinary Kodak cameras; an' all the other necessary bits an' pieces. Can't be many stores who have that sort'a stuff readily available, you'd think.”

“Let's drag the city directories off their shelves in'ta daylight.”

Fiona rose, and made her way over to the wall where several bookcases and shelves stood; all packed to bursting with every known catalogue, directory, encyclopedia, and almanac imaginable—the ladies being nothing if not thorough.

“You take the south directories.” Fiona continued, grabbing a couple of weighty volumes for herself. “I'll take the north. Photography, photography,—does that come under pictures, or portraits, or somethin'?”

Yet another period of calm and silence reigned unopposed in the office as both women settled to the task of grinding out, from the chaff of information within the dusty tattered books, the sweet corn grist of knowledge. After an hour of this concentrated work they paused for a well-earned bottle of Coca-Cola and a rest; comparing results as they sipped the cold drinks from the office refrigerator—a perk Alice had insisted on, months ago, as being well worth the expense.

“What'cha got then, ducks?”

“There's apparently no less than three shops selling photographic material in the Ainsworth Parade, down on Ranford Street.” Alice indicated, with an idle little finger, the volume she had been perusing. “Two actual camera shops, an' a place that sells film as a sideline.”

“Pretty good, to begin with.” Fiona nodded, taking another sip of her drink. “I got two only. Camera shops on, respectively, Vereker Street, and Melling Road. Don't think there'll be any trouble visitin' either of them.”

“They're both in the north o'town; you could take them, while I hit the Parade.”

“It's a plan. Do I have a say in whether it's viable or not? No, didn't think so.” Fiona shrugged lightly. “OK, I'm up for it. Finish that drink quick and, by the way, I think you've spilt it over your blouse. Is that a stain? Yep, it is. Gon'na change, or go as y'are, doll?”

“ Dam'. ”

—O—

The Ainsworth Parade sat just south of the city centre, in an area of upper-crust shops selling high quality, and therefore expensive, stock. A couple of specialist camera shops were, therefore, not out of place amongst these denizens of the elite. Alice, newly dressed in a tweed combination of ankle-length tight skirt and loose jacket top, stepped into the first shop with regal disdain for the obviously swell surroundings; which oozed expense in every direction. The persons working in the store could hardly be called mere assistants, judging by their superior stance, and tendency to look down their noses at any approaching customer who didn't come up to their severe standards. Alice, however, felt up for a fight so marched purposely across to a likely looking lady standing, with haughty aloofness, by a display case.

“Say, how's trade these days, ma'am? Some fancy cameras around here, an' no mistake.”

The lady turned slowly to regard this new obstacle to her having a quiet day; looking down, she being almost as tall as Fiona, at the young lady before her.

“We have top of the range, high-quality cameras, if that is what madam means.” Her tone was sharp as ice, and just about as cold. It was obvious she regarded this latest intrusion from the real world out on the sidewalk as a passing drifter, not a bona-fide paying customer. “Would madam like to examine the new $225 Leica mono-lens? Or would she prefer to begin with the $450 Voigtlander wide-angle lens camera. Does one intend paying by check or, ahem , cash?”

“One has no intention of parting with any amount of greenbacks, sister.” Alice had swiftly lost all sympathy for the working girl, faced with this stance. “Here, take a look at my identification, I'm a private dick an' I'm here for some answers, lady.”

“Oh, well, in that case what can I do for you. I am the manageress of this establishment.” The lady, after a cursory glance at the card held out by Alice, had stepped back, looking round to see that no other nearby innocent customer might be contaminated by the presence of the Law, and now indicated the door to an office in the far wall. “Perhaps if one were to follow me, we might be able to have an, er , private discussion. I hope there have been no accusations against anyone or anything to do with this establishment?”

“One will follow you, by all means.” Alice was in her element, hardly able to restrain a grin of triumph. “A private chat'll be just the thing.”

The office proved to be small but, as one would expect, perfectly ordered. A large desk, of polished oak; a few filing-cabinets; two luxurious leather armchairs; and a tall wide window letting in a wash of bright daylight. The colour scheme was predominantly pale yellow with orange highlights—an acquired taste, Alice thought as she sat down.

“Now, what may I do for you?”

“For reasons I won't go into,” Alice started out right in the thick of the situation. “I need t'establish whether anyone has bought rather a mixed load of equipment and material, relating to taking and developing photographs, recently. Probably not one of your regular customers.”

“ Hmm , how recent is recently? And what kind of materials?” The tendency in the lady's eye to look down on one was quietly returning, probably automatically. “Glass-plate negatives? The newspapermen take those in bulk; and a terrible nuisance they can be—no sense of etiquette, you understand. Or roll-film? We sell a large amount of that; for the new cameras, you see.”

“Yeah, I see.” Alice tried to keep the sarcastic tone from her voice, with mixed results going by the expression on the lady's face. “What I want is roll-film sales; but to one individual. And also developing material, along with the right kind'a paper t'print the photos. And, perhaps, a lot'ta flash-bulbs. All that sort of thing. Any suspects? Say over the last four months or so?”

The lady sat back in her chair, tapping with the fingers of her left hand on the desktop as she considered the matter; all the time regarding Alice as if she would much rather this interloper wasn't there at all. Then she came to a decision; probably aimed at getting rid of her unwanted interlocutor as quickly as possible, with no chance of an unwanted return bout in the future.

“Now you mention the matter someone does spring to mind.” She rose and walked over to one of the filing-cabinets, in the top shelf of which she now made a rapid search. “Ah, here we are, the sales for a Mr Alec Derringham over the past three months. Yes, rather a lot of goods, when looked at as a whole. Do you wish to take notes? I can give you all the requisite figures and descriptions?”

“You bet'cha I'm gon'na take notes.” Alice hauled her sturdy notebook from the depths of her handbag and posed her pencil over the first page. “Go ahead, lady, I'm listenin'.”

—O—

“How many flashbulbs?”

“Forty-five.” Alice was in her element, back at the office, reading her notes to Fiona. “They come in ten an' five packs, y'see.”

“Well, Mr Derringham seems t'have somethin' important he wants t'capture, in crisp detail.” Fiona, sitting behind their shared desk, mused with one finger on the edge of her cheek. “An' plenty of developin' paper, y'say?”

“Yep, furlongs o'the stuff.” Alice nodded assent. “Along with bottles of various chemicals. Judgin' from the amount he bought at this one shop he must have the making's of a fully stocked druggist's by now.”

“Wherever that may be.”

“Yeah, there is that, Fay.” The brunette pondered on this last detail. “Pity he never gave the lady at the shop his home address.”

“Just took everything away by hand, eh?”

“Yep, must'a had a car nearby, I suppose.”

Fiona looked up from her close scrutiny of the desktop, favouring her lover with a broad smile.

“Y'know what that means, duckie?”

Alice considered first the bright gleam in her partner's eye; then the subject in question.

“ Ah-ha , names mean driving licences.” She had gotten the point. “An' that means our friendly licence-man down at the Department—Bob Hanning. Won't he be just overjoyed t'hear your golden tones, dearest?”

“No, not really.” Fiona was on top of the situation. “Mostly because it'll be you he has the conversation with. I've had the brain-wave; you can do the spadework. Well, there's the phone—go to it, time matters, y'know.”

“ Sheesh. ”

Alice sat down on the other side of the desk and dragged the phone across with a scowl. She knew the number by heart so within a minute she was connected.

“Hiya, Bob. How's life in the hot lane?”

“ Jeez , you again. Don't I get time off for good behaviour? Wasn't it just two weeks ago I shelled out with that number on the Voerlaite case? What more d'you want, I'm a busy man, y'know.”

“Don't get agitated Bob, y'know it only brings you out in spots.” Alice knew exactly how to handle their old acquaintance. “Nothin' strenuous this time, anyway. We got us a name—Alec Derringham. If you can manage t'get t'grips with the licencing system down there maybe you could pass along the home address—all o'them, if there's more'n one.”

“ Jeesus , that might take days. I got other things t'do here, y'realise?”

“OK-OK, don't get riled; just as quickly as y'can manage.” Alice pouted her lips and shook her head at Fiona in mock despair. “Only, try'n make it sometime this week, eh.”

“ Jeez , I'll see what I can do. I'll get back t'ya. Don't call me; I'll ca—”

“Yeah-Yeah, funny-boy. I'll wait on tenterhooks—just, y'know, make it snappy.”

“ Hah! ”

Alice listened a few more seconds, then replaced the receiver.

“He's gone.” She smiled, with a shake of her head, at her companion. “Hopefully t'get right on it.”

“That'll be the day.” Fiona was more realistic. “Probably call us a week on Saturday—three days after we've closed the case. You wait'n see.”

“ Ummph .”

—O—

There was something in the air of the dusty close-atmosphered small wood-panelled office at Police HQ that denoted a long acquaintance with low-life's and dead-beats of several generations past. The present resident occupier of the chair behind the heaped desk looking more flustered and hard-worked than, perhaps, any earlier tenant of the place.

“Who cares?” Inspector Fletcher was showing all that charm and sangfroid which had not gotten him elected as Nicest Officer in the Dept. that year, or any other come to that. “A penny-ante break-in; nuthin' much, if anythin', stolen; a broken flashbulb. Hell, that ain't a crime, that's just a bad day at the office. I tell ya, for two bits I'd'a run the dame in for time-wastin', or somethin'. O'course, there was the question of the coshed nightwatchman. I'm still workin' on that aspect o'the case.”

“ Huh , y'make it sound like a dam' Sherlock Holmes story. Well, she cornered us with the same tearjerker, an' now we're chasin' a substantial pay-check. So, what'cha got, Fletch? Spit it out, we're workin' gals, an' time's valuable.” Fiona grinned broadly at the uncomfortable man, eyes dancing with suppressed laughter; knowing full well the bark was always worse than the bite. “Come on, give us somethin'.”

“ Bluejacket , fer the two-thirty at Meidener Fields on Thursday. How's that?”

“Har-de-har.” Alice stepped into the fray with a nonchalant nose in the air. “Don't be childish. So, who's the prime suspect?”

“What?”

“Prime suspect.” Alice knew her official language. “That's what all the police squads have, when there's a high-steppin' robbery. So, who've you got on your mind; that's causin' y' t'lose sleep these cosy nights?”

“Alice,” The Inspector regarded the brunette with a kindly glance; he being that way at heart, though seldom showing it. “y'really got'ta give up reading ‘ Thrilling Detective Weekly ', or whatever other garbage rag y'r perusin' these days. Ain't anyone ever told y'about Henry James, or Edith Wharton, or whoever?”

“ Ha! ” Alice recoiled with a grimace. “I'll let you know my better half here—yeah, her ,—made me read ‘ The Turn of the Screw ' three weeks ago. An' I can confidently tell every-bloody-one listenin' here t'day that it'll be a dam' cold day in Hell when I ever pick up another of his dam' works. Nightmares for a week, Fletch—for a week! ”

“Returnin' t'the question under discussion,” Fiona affected not to have heard her partner's tirade. “If there's any detail, or likely character who might have some insight into the affair, give us a clue, Inspector.”

“Well, the motive—not that I'm goin' so far as t'allow there is one, mind you,—seems t'be; accordin' t'Miss Du Cherry—”

“Sher- ee . That's how it's pronounced.” Alice piped up artlessly, thereby losing all Fletcher's kind opinion at a stroke. “Always like t'give a helpin' hand where it's needed.”

The Inspector paused to scrabble around on his overloaded desktop, pushing files aside with abandon, some of which fell on the linoleum covered floor unregarded. Finally he found his prize, a slightly used cigar, which he promptly gazed at menacingly, then shoved in an inside pocket of his jacket, before returning his attention to matters at hand.

“I'd like t'give ya both a helpin' hand, inta the nearest cell; an' I'd take some persuadin' before I let either o'ya back out.” He sniffed heartily, leaned back on his ricketty chair; looked gloomily at a fly crawling valiantly across the stained ceiling; and reluctantly admitted defeat. “OK, what we here at the Dept are workin' on is the theory that there's got'ta be a Big Guy behind it. If, that is, there is an it fer anyone t'be behind in the first place. Takin' that as read—”

“Takin' what as read?” Alice always liked her facts co-ordinated and highlighted in neon colours.

“That there'd been some illicit photographic skullduggery, as per description, in the first place.” Fiona set her heartmate right.

“ Oh. ”

“Can I go on? Thanks, awfully.” Fletcher looked as if he wanted to snarl, but knowing how ineffectual this would be, passed on the chance. “Now, we ain't got the foggiest who the photographic freak—the breaker-an'-enterer, an' cosher—may be. Could be any hood or scrounger. But the Big Guy; well, there we can reduce the possibilities t'a few known grafters.”

“Like who?” Fiona sat forward on her chair, after all any lead at this stage of their investigation might save weeks of work.

“First-off there's Jimmy Favelli, o'course—”

“Yeah, we have our beady eyes on him already.” Alice nodded knowingly.

“—but it ain't him.” Fletcher grinned widely at his small triumph. “Alibis, y'know—not t'mention intent an' reason. He ain't got any reason t'perpetrate, or cause such to be perpetrated. Jimmy ain't in the Fashion business—an', from the interview I had with him yesterday, he ain't got any plans to bust the barriers o'the local haute couture any time soon, if ever—so he's out.”

“ Dam'. ”

“Never mind, Al, one off our guest list for the reveal party at the end o'the story.”

“Ladies, will ya lem'me finish? My time's precious; a dam' sight more'n yours, I'll have ya both know. Now, where the dam' was I?”

“Jimmy's out; who's in?” Alice edged the irate law-officer back on the straight and narrow.

“Right. So, that leaves, we've decided—”

“Who's decided?” Alice never did know when to leave a thing be.

“ Rrrrr! ” Fletcher sat back on his chair, which groaned under the strain, and rolled his eyes for a few seconds, before regaining control. “The best Law-enforcement brains in Delacote City, that's who; an' they don't include either o'you, so there.”

“ Hummph! ”

“That ain't fair.”

“Which leaves, as contestant Numero Uno, the great and good Frankie Kincaid. Y'know him?”

“O'course we know Kincaid.” Fiona was irked to her very bones. “Who doesn't know that slimeball. Dam' time y'had him in the local hoosegow. Why ain't ya done it yet, may I ask?”

Once again, and not for the first time, the local representative of Law in Delacote City pondered on whether it had been a mistake when, at the start of his illustrious career, he had contemplated the choices of either the Law or the greengrocery trade. He still wondered, on cold dark nights, whether he'd made the right decision.

“Because, an' this may come as somethin' of a surprise t'you private dicks, we here in Police HQ work under what are generally known as the State Laws.” Fletcher's upper lip curled sarcastically. “Which, overall, means we got'ta have hard evidence before we throw someone in the slammer. So, as of said date, Kincaid's perfectly legally pollutin' the neighbourhood, a free man.”

Fiona glanced at Alice; who returned the compliment.

“But ya got suspicions?” Fiona inclined her head, in a knowing seen-it-all-before manner. “There's somethin' naggin' your intestines, around the ol' scumbag, ain't there?”

“Nuthin' concrete, but we know a known criminal from France came over on the Mauretania a few months ago, and has made contact with Kincaid—dubious business deals, an' suchlike.” Fletcher put a hand up to scratch his always stubbly chin. “Nuthin' we could take umbrage at, legally speakin', but all the same—”

“All the same, what?” Alice frowned darkly as she considered the matter.

“This French guy, we believe, has some underworld connections t'the fashion trade back in gay Paree.” Fletcher shrugged; not easy when sitting slumped on an old office chair, but the Inspector had long experience behind him. “An' we sort'a all came t'the conclusion that he—the Frenchman, that is,—had maybe influenced Kincaid inta branchin' out. Well, it's the best we got t'go on at the moment. Now, shove off, I got bundles o'work t'get through here. An' on yer way tell Sergeant Anderson, at the reception desk, t'send up a cup o'hot coffee, I'm parched.”

—O—

“Well, I thought that went quite well.”

The women were sitting in Alice's Plymouth coupe at the side of the street outside Police HQ, considering the recently concluded interview.

“Oh, ya did, did ya?” Fiona was more critical of the situation. “More'n I did, lady.”

“How so?” The brunette paused in getting to grips with the foot-pedals to cast an upraised eyebrow in her partner's direction. “Fletch came up with Kincaid, didn't he?”

“Yeah, but that's all.” Fiona shuffled in her thick winter woolen coat as she made herself comfortable. “An' where does that leave us? Not much further forward. How're we gon'na put the pinch on someone as exalted as Kincaid? He lives in a big mansion out Todmorton way, with an army o'hoods t'protect his sorry ass.”

“There's that, surely.”

Silence prevailed in the car as Alice wended her way through the afternoon traffic, heading back to their office. They had reached 12 th Street before she came up with the nearest to a feasible strategy.

“Suppose we just got'ta find the palooka who cracked the fashion house, after all.”

“Please tell me y're not callin' that feeble remark a boney-fidey plan, dearie?”

Alice took time out from terrifying the traffic all round her slightly swerving vehicle to wrinkle her nose at her detractor; but as Fiona found this trait mightily engaging it failed entirely in its expected aim.

“As professional detectives I don't think that should cause us much trouble.” The brunette's tone could have cut steel; but her lover was impervious, merely smiling in answer. “ Oh! So what's your take on the situation, then?”

“Don't get all itzy; it may not be much, but it'll have'ta do. I'm in.” Fiona poured soothing oil on the troubled waters of her partner's temper. “”Y're right enough, it's our only real option. Hi-ho , looks as if we're gon'na lose some more shoe-leather before we're through with this case. Hey , can't ya drive a little more responsibly, Jeez! ”

—O—

“Urgent phone message came, a while ago.” Helen waved them through to their private office as she sat typing something in the outer reception room. “I put it on your desk.”

“Oke's, Hel.”

“Is that street patter?” Fiona essayed a tone of mild sarcasm as they threw their handbags on the nearby couch and collapsed into the chairs ranged behind the long desk in the room looking out on Rosemartin Road far below. “Where do ya pick it up? Y'll be speakin' French next.”

“Give it up, gal.” Alice heaved a long comfortable sigh as she relaxed, brushing a hand through her shingled hair. “Right then, what'd'we do now?”

A quiet descended in the office while Fiona, on her part, eased her aching feet and regarded her co-conspirator gloomily.

“Y'lookin' at me, babe? Why?”

Alice growled inarticulately, accompanying this with a slight shake of her head; then idly picked up the pale cream message form Helen had left amidst the general mess on their desk.

“Say, looker, let your peepers rest on this!” Alice sat up straight and waved the form around like a hand-flag at a Parade.

“Wassup? Wan'na cup'pa coffee—I do.”

“This message—Hanning's come up trumps.”

“Hanning? What's he—oh yes, the car number. So what is it?”

“Lem'me read you what Helen took down over the phone.” Alice smiled broadly, as being the bearer of good news. “From Mr Robert Hanning, to Drever and Cartwright Detective Agency, re request for car identification number on a Mr Alec Derringham. According to city records only one person of this name is registered within New Hampshire to drive a road vehicle. Address and particulars as follows—Alec Derringham, 219 Waite Drive, Garstone, Delacote City. Car, 1928 Ford Model A. Colour, grey. BRY 1475. End message.”

Fiona, who had been listening avidly, nodded wisely.

“Well, we know where we're goin' next. What time is it? Two-thirty-five. Wan'na wash an' brush up first, or are we good t'go? Thought so.”

—O—

Garstone could never be classed as an up-and-coming city suburb. Its days of fresh paint and a spring in its step were long gone. Nowadays it presented a dusty, peeling, run-down visage to the passing motorist—the majority of whom, having common-sense, did indeed pass by. More or less exclusively the preserve of the lowly paid and those whose only goal lay towards gaining the next pay-check to tide them over for another month, the area saw few visitors of what might be termed a higher social standing. So Alice was somewhat perturbed at the thought of having to leave her precious Plymouth coupe at the roadside while they bearded their foe in his den.

“The place's deserted; nobody about at all.” Fiona tried to calm her partner's twitchy nerves. “Look, see the grey Ford, two along? He must be in residence as we speak. Anyway, park it here, between this line o'battered n'bent rattletraps; no-one'll notice it amongst this bunch o'wrecks.”

“Oh, that's a great way t'talk about the second love o'my life.” Alice wrinkled perfect lips in a gentle sneer. “O'course, second can always rise t'first, at a pinch, y'know.”

“ Huh! ” Fiona wasn't impressed, clambering out and waiting on the sidewalk for the owner to give her vehicle one last loving glance. “Come on, time's a'wa—”

“Yeah-yeah, I'm with you.” Alice strode forward across the dusty paving. “ Irrrph! Is this beaten-down pile o'rubble actually still livable-in?”

219 Waite Drive, a small clapper-board bungalow set back from the road across a wide but untended grass-plot and never a salubrious address, had with the long passage of time taken on the aspect of a B movie set, complete with overgrown creepers on the walls.

“This front lawn hasn't seen a gardener since Woodrow Wilson was President.” Alice clearly wasn't impressed. “ God , no bell. Fay, my gloves are too clean an' fine t'waste—hit the door with your fist, an' make it loud, I don't like this neighbourhood.”

“Oh, your gloves—” The sniff of disapproval Fiona emitted might have been heard across the wide street, but she buckled down to business.

There was a small glass pane in the front door, but it was obscured by aeons of dirt and was useless as a peephole into the house's interior; the main window, to their right, was also masked by closed venetian blinds. Fiona banged industriously on the frame to the side and, being a hearty kind of lady, went to it with a will. The result was instantaneous.

“ Hey , Fay, Y'hear that? The back door slammed.” Alice was quick at sums, putting two and two together promptly. “The rat's tryin' t'escape. Let's go, round this way—watch out for that garbage-can.”

The rear of the building presented as rank a picture as the front; there was what, at one time, might have passed as a back-garden; though now it was no more than a wasteland of broken ground, covered in the debris of the ages. This consisting of everything from a long-abandoned couch, going green with mildew; to a couple of car tyres and several cracked empty wooden boxes. The whole was surrounded by what had at one time been a hedge, but now was a head-high forest. The ladies arrived in this wilderness just in time to see a dark shape disappear in the tangled undergrowth on the far left side of the plot. On either hand were other rundown bungalows, but in the direction their fugitive seemed to have taken, there was a large patch of barren ground, now covered with thick bushes and some fairly well-rooted and tall trees.

“ Jeez , the bloody Amazon rain-forest.” Fiona growled angrily. “Did ya see which way the bastard went? Over there? Along that path?”

“ God , this's killin' my skirt.” Alice was focussed on other matters. “These dam' thorns are grabbing me like they were alive. Can y'see the bastard?”

The women ran on some thirty yards more before coming out into a clearing, surrounded by dense undergrowth and patches of thickly-leaved trees reaching some thirty feet into the air all round. Of their fugitive there was no sign.

“ Jesus, lost him.” Fiona came to a halt, gasping for breath. “Y'OK, gal?”

“Fine, Fay, fine; apart from these rags I'm wearin', that used t'be my clothes.” Alice, standing now by her partner's side, took a rapid glance around. “Well, that's just dandy. We lost the clown, right in the centre o'Delacote City—who'd a'believed it possible?”

“ Rrr , the suburbs, really, I suppose—but I get y're meanin'.” Fiona heaved another sigh. “ Dam' . Oh well, let's go back an' take a shufti at his den. Wonder if there's anythin' interestin' there still?”

Being now heated with the chase, and taking mere By-laws simply as well-meant suggestions, Fiona wasted no time in applying a long thin steel implement—usually carefully hidden in her capacious handbag for just such emergencies— to the rickety frame of the front door. In seconds a wrenching and tearing of old dry wood heralded their ability to enter the house; even if, legally speaking, with less than judicial permission.

Inside they progressed along a dirty somewhat dim corridor; Alice opening the first door on their right to enter the main room of the bungalow. It turning out to be furnished in the dusty heavy taste of the long-gone Art Nouveau period; clearly no item within having been purchased later than 1910. On a small table near the window were numerous loose large-size photographs; while on a bureau near the far wall rested some equipment obviously associated with these. A small hand-held camera with a flashbulb-fitting sat there also, to one side.

“ A-ha! ” Fiona was jubilant, reaching out to give Alice a hearty pat on her shoulder. “Look'ee here. Well, well, the riches o'the Indies, as Cap'n Morgan used t'say, or I'm a Dutchman's Uncle.”

It took only the simplest cursory examination to clarify these were, indeed, the sought-for photos of Miss Du Cherie's foully assaulted dress designs. Even though in black and white both Fiona and Alice had no trouble in identifying several as copies of the originals which now resided in their private office on Rosemartin Road.

“Well, I suppose now we got'ta beat on Inspector Fletcher's door, an' point him in the right direction.” Fiona ran a hand through her luxurious black hair, shuffling through the piles of photos with some glee.

“Miss Du Cherie'll be overjoyed t'know they haven't yet been been sold on t'some other Fashion House.” Alice nodded in agreement. “Suppose this means we'll actually be able t'collect on our pay-check. That'll make a change.”

Fiona had begun hunting through the photos and documents littered over the tabletop, obviously with some goal in mind.

“Can y'see anythin' here that'd associate Kincaid with this set-up?” She read a letter, amongst the variety of others, then tossed it aside. “Fletcher'd like that; Hell , I'd like that.”

“Trust Kincaid t'make sure his hoodlums didn't leave clues like that behind.” Alice was realistic, shaking her head knowingly. “ Dear jerk, kindly do a robbery for me, Yours, Frankie Kincaid . I don't think so.”

Knock, Knock, Knock—Knock, Knock.

Both women paused, standing like statues for an appreciable time. Then Alice broke the silence.

“If I had'ta make a guess, Fay, I'd say that reminded me of Inspector Fletcher's modus of sayin' hallo on a door. You?”

“Yup, ditto. Jeez , I think we're in the soup.”

A quick shuffle along the dim corridor to the front confirmed all their suspicions. The door now stood wide, with a tall grey-haired silhouette blocking any hoped for rapid egress. He was looking sadly at the evidence of Fiona's earlier handiwork, then turned an expressionless face to the two pseudo-burglars.

“Well, Hi-ya ladies. Fancy meetin' you here.” Fletcher stepped inside, allowing the women a glimpse of the two police-cars now parked ostentatiously in the road outside, along with a veritable army of uniforms. “Y'didn't suppose we hadn't already pinpointed Derringham, did ya? We been keepin' our eye on the con fer the last day or so; an' then you barge in an' spoil things.”

“What've we spoiled, Fletch?” Fiona stepped up to the plate, hoping attack was the best form of defence. “There's enough evidence in that room back there t'sink a battleship.”

“ Oh-ah , no doubt; but is there connecting-evidence, that's the thing?” Fletch, now happily ensconced, with the women, in said front room amongst all the paraphernalia, shook his head sadly again. “What we want is Kincaid; this roustabout Derringham; he ain't o'any concern or importance in the long run. We were after the big fish; an' you ladies have obstructed the police in the due performance o'their duties therein.”

“Oh, stop soundin' like a circuit judge, Fletch.” Fiona was exasperated. “So, what're ya gon'na do? Hurl insults f'the rest o'the afternoon, or get after Derringham, an' then do some spadework t'capture Kincaid, too?”

“We already got Derringham.” Fletcher allowed himself a broad grin, though without going so far as to let any humour show through. “We had the place surrounded. If'n you two had carried on through the undergrowth out there fer another twenty yards or so you'd a'run slap inta our cordon—just like Derringham did.”

“Oh dam'.” Alice growled in defeat. “So you had the whole thing parcelled up already, like a Christmas present.”

“Indeed we did, little missy.” The Inspector looked complacent. “Which just goes t'prove, if y'want a thing done properly, leave it t'the proper authorities—in this case the 5 th Precinct.”

“So what's the next step?” Fiona was less than pleased with the outcome. “What about Alice an' me.”

“—an' I , ain't it?” Fletcher grinned for the first time with real contentment. “Well, we're gon'na take ol' Derringham down t'the Precinct; an' I expec' y'can pretty much guess what we're gon'na do with him there?”

Both women raised eyebrows, knowing how the local newspapers gloried in rumours of the third degree and suchlike activities behind closed doors at Police HQ.

“Oh, don't get me wrong ladies.” Fletch escorted them to the door once more. “No rough stuff; we'll just scare him pretty much, an' wait t'see what he decides it'd be politic t'open up on, t'save his scrawny neck. Maybe still a fair chance he'll embroil Kincaid in the whole thing, yet.”

“And us, Fletch?” Alice stared conspicuously at the evidence, on the door-frame, of Fiona's recent breaking-and-entering activities.

“Oh, you two can go home.” Fletcher cast a beady eye over the door, then grinned at the forlorn pair on the doorstep. “But don't do it again; not, at least, so's I get t'hear of it. Go on, scram.”

“Thanks, Fletch.”

“Y're a doll, Fletch. OK, OK, we're goin'.”

—O—

Back at the Packer Building both women settled their nerves with the judicious employment of paper cartons of cold iced cola. It had been a near thing, for once.

“A dam' close run thing, Al.” Fiona sighed in relief as she sat on the office couch beside her partner. “For two bits Fletch could'a run us in an' thrown the book at us. Wonder what y'd look like in prison garb, honey?”

“ Ha , let's hope you never get the chance to find out, ducks.”

A pleasant silence descended on the office, as the women relaxed; contemplating the comfortable fact that, against all the odds, they were still free citizens.

“So, what's the next step?” Alice went over the recent scenes in her mind, searching for a positive slant. “Does this mean we actually get to pinch Miss Du Barry—I mean, Cherie, for our pay-check, after all?”

“Don't see why not.” Fiona cast this piddling worry aside contemptuously. “It's our hard-earned dough; and, boy , have we hard-earned it.”

“Y'think so, lover?”

“Well, look at the facts.” Fiona wasn't one for accepting defeat in the face of certain victory. “We listen t'the Cherie's sob story; go right off an' finger the character responsible for the break-in an' photographin' scam; then trail him t'his den, through pure professional hard work; an' finally find all that evidence, which also shows he hasn't yet sold it to another Fashion House. An' now it's all safely locked up at the 5 th Precinct. What more could ol' Du Cherie want? We did all she asked us t'do.”

“Yeah, put like that, we're in clover—I think.”

“ ‘course we are.” Fiona had no doubts. “ Hey , what're we sittin' here corrodin' our taste buds with this mud for; when we could break open a coupl'a bottles o'beer. Y'know where t'find ‘em, doll. The lower shelf in the fridge, at the back. Don't bother with glasses; an' please tell me ya haven't lost the bottle-opener again.”

Alice rose, smoothed down her somewhat scratched yellow cotton skirt—those bush-thorns had wreaked havoc on her clothes—and sashayed over to the tall fridge in the corner of the long office; her partner watching her every move with relish.

—O—

“Is it really true?” Miss Du Cherie looked as if she had just received her first ever Valentine's Day card, as the three women sat in her office later that evening. “It's all been sorted out, and you've found the photos, before they were sold? I can't believe it.”

“Yes, it's all over, bar the shoutin' in the courtroom when the culprit comes t'trial.” Alice nodded happily, though she was feeling a little embarassed; still wearing, as she was, her yellow skirt and short jacket which both showed unmistakable signs of having been through the wars during the chase earlier in the afternoon. “We trailed the burglar to his hide-out an' the cops, who weren't really far behind, came along an' did the rest. The photos are safely locked up in the evidence room at the 5 th Precinct as we speak.”

“So ya can forget about any worries y'had about any other fashion places collarin' ‘em.” Fiona smiled cheerfully. “You're in the clear, ba—I mean, Miss Du Cherie.”

“That is wonderful; really wonderful.” The lady did indeed look overjoyed with this so-wished-for ending to her worries. “Well, I think you have both earned your fee comprehensively; let me make out a check right away, I have my book here.”

There then played out that scene most dear to all self-respecting detectives' hearts; the quiet, yet deeply satisfying, sound of a fountain pen in the hand of a satisfied client writing out a nice set of figures across a check made payable to said detectives.

Alice placed the slip of paper safely in her commodious handbag; beside the roll of peppermints; the rubber cosh; her .38 Smith and Wesson revolver; and the latest card for the runners next Thursday at Meidener Fields racetrack. All the important items in life, in fact.

Far from then showing her guests politely out the owner of the establishment now sat back in her chair and cast a sharp professional eye over Alice; or, at least, her damaged clothes.

“Miss Drever, you seem to have, umm , suffered in the course of your duties.” Miss Du Cherie smiled gently. “Am I to understand all this, er , impairment to your skirt and jacket happened while on my business?”

“ er , yeah, I suppose.”

“Well, in that case the remedy is to hand, is it not?” Miss Du Cherie rose with regal grace and extended an arm towards the door to her design-room. “If you would both be kind enough to step into my work-room, my team of seamstresses are still engaged there. It will take only a moment for my assistant to measure you, Miss Drever; then we can spend some time deciding just what style and design will suit you best. All on the firm, of course. It seems the least I can do, considering your excellent work on my behalf; and on behalf of the Tyland Fashion House. This way, if you please. Yellow suits you admirably, if I may say so.”

Fiona rolled her eyes at the immensity of it all; then grinned broadly at her loved partner.

“Y'deserve it, doll. Miss Du Cherie, Al likes cool gentle colours; not this jazzy Art-Deco nonsense. Try'n keep her wilder desires in check, will ya?”

“ Wheee! Oh Gods, look'it that design, Fay. I love those colours. Is this skirt too short, d'you think? Oh Goodness, feel this material. Whooppee! ”

The End

—O—

To be continued in the next instalment of the ‘ Drever & Cartwright ' series.

—OOO—

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