Framed by a mysterious glass sphere in a locked study, a disgraced WWII investigator must outsmart his military mentor.
Arthur walked for miles, his shoes squelching with mud, before finding a payphone outside a darkened diner. He fed it a nickel, his fingers stiff with cold, and dialed a familiar number.
It rang three times before a gruff voice answered. “Fourth Precinct. Johnson speaking.”
“It’s Arthur,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I need to talk to him. It’s urgent.”
A long pause. Then, “He’s busy, Finch. You know what’s happening.”
“Tell him it’s about the Krol case,” Arthur insisted. “Tell him it’s a frame.”
Another pause. “Hold on.” The line went dead for a moment, then clicked back on. “He’ll meet you in the alley behind the diner. Five minutes. Alone.”
Arthur hung up. He knew the risk. Walking into the heart of the precinct’s territory was reckless, but he needed information, and Johnson owed him. A small favor from a past case, now magnified a hundredfold.
He slipped into the narrow, refuse-strewn alley. The air smelled of burnt grease and garbage. A figure emerged from the diner’s back door, its white apron a beacon in the gloom. Johnson.
“You’re a damn fool, Arthur,” Johnson said, his voice flat. He clutched a cigarette between his fingers, the tip glowing.
“What do you know?” Arthur cut to the chase. “Doyle’s looking for me.”
Johnson took a long drag. “He ain’t just looking. He’s got a warrant. Officially signed and sealed.”
“For what?” Arthur felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach.
“Murder. Madame Krol.” Johnson flicked ash onto the ground. “And illegal possession of firearms.”
“When was it signed?” Arthur asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Six PM, this evening,” Johnson replied, his eyes avoiding Arthur’s. “Doyle stamped it himself. Said it was high priority. Colonel Garrick pushed for it.”
Six PM. Arthur’s mind reeled. Helena Krol had died at 8:15 PM. The body hadn’t even been reported until after 10 PM. The warrant was signed four hours *before* the crime was even officially known.
“He signed it before she was dead,” Arthur said, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. “Before anyone knew she was dead.”
Johnson nodded slowly. “That’s what I said. Doyle just shook his head and told me to stamp it. ‘Orders from high up,’ he said.”
Before Arthur could ask about Garrick’s specific involvement, the alley was flooded with blinding light. Police cruisers blocked both ends, their headlamps blazing.
“Finch! Hands where I can see ’em!” Detective Captain Marcus Doyle’s voice boomed from a loudspeaker.
Johnson dropped his cigarette, his face draining of color. He gave Arthur a desperate, apologetic glance.
“Get out of here!” Johnson hissed. “Go!”
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