Framed by a mysterious glass sphere in a locked study, a disgraced WWII investigator must outsmart his military mentor.
The rain had lessened to a fine drizzle, clinging to Arthur’s eyelashes as he moved through the shadows. He approached the Krol estate from the rear, hugging the line of ancient oaks that bordered the property. The house, dark and silent now, loomed ahead.
Police tape fluttered around the front entrance, but the rear alleyway was undisturbed. He slid past a rusted gate, the metal scraping a protest in the quiet night.
He made his way to the back of the study, the same window he had escaped through. The mud was churned where he had fallen. He ran his hand along the bottom of the heavy oak door frame, just above the damp ground.
His fingers brushed against cold brass. A small, almost invisible service latch, set low, flush with the wood. He felt a slick sheen on its surface. Fresh machine oil.
It clicked into place, not from the inside, but from the outside. A shiver ran down his spine. The lock wasn’t on the door handle, easily seen and accounted for. It was a hidden mechanism, meant to seal the room from beyond.
“Ingenious,” he muttered, the word tasting bitter. “So simple.”
The killer had locked the door from the alleyway, after setting the optical sphere, and then vanished. The “locked room mystery” was just another layer of the frame.
He backed away from the house, his gaze sweeping the street beyond the estate wall. A dark silhouette against the glow of a distant streetlamp caught his eye.
A military staff car. Black, gleaming even in the dim light. Its engine idled, a low thrumming sound in the quiet residential street.
The driver’s side window was down. A man sat behind the wheel, his profile distinct for a brief moment as he turned his head, staring directly at the Krol house.
Colonel Thomas Garrick. His former commanding officer. The man who had personally debriefed him on his most difficult cases. The man who taught him everything about intelligence and deception.
Arthur ducked behind a thick hedge, his heart hammering against his ribs. Garrick’s presence here, now, was no coincidence. He was watching. Waiting.
The colonel’s car idled for another long minute, then pulled away smoothly, disappearing around the corner.
Arthur waited, counting slowly to two hundred, before he finally straightened up. Garrick was involved. Deeply involved. This wasn’t just a frame-up; it was a carefully orchestrated military operation, designed to eliminate Helena Krol and silence Arthur.
He had to get to the precinct. Doyle would be making calls.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours