Framed by a mysterious glass sphere in a locked study, a disgraced WWII investigator must outsmart his military mentor.
Arthur found Garrick’s office building locked tight. A prominent War Department facility, it was guarded even at night. But the matchbook specifically mentioned a filing cabinet on the third floor, not Garrick’s private office.
He spent the next hour casing the surrounding blocks, seeking a vulnerable point. He noticed a narrow alleyway behind a row of storefronts, leading to a service entrance. A faint light glowed on the third floor. Jonathan Hallowell’s office. The Appraiser.
He recalled Hallowell from a few years back, a fastidious man with a penchant for expensive suits and cheap cigars, handling war claims. Hallowell had processed some of Arthur’s unit’s equipment requisitions during the war.
Arthur forced the service door, the old lock protesting with a loud crack that echoed in the empty building. He crept up three flights of stairs, each step a potential betrayal of his presence.
The third floor corridor was dimly lit. Hallowell’s office door was ajar, the faint light emanating from inside. Arthur pushed it open silently.
The room was a mess. Papers strewn across the desk, file cabinet drawers hanging open. A large, steel safe stood in the corner, its heavy door slightly ajar. Hallowell was clearly not as meticulous as Arthur remembered.
Arthur’s gaze landed on a stack of deeds on the desk, partially obscured by a brass lamp. He picked up the top document. It detailed the transfer of properties in suburban Virginia. His eyes scanned the names. shell companies, all registered under “Helena K. Krol,” but using her rarely-used maiden name, Krolinska.
He flipped through more documents. The numbers blurred. Then, a single figure stood out: $350,000. Post-war German assets, laundered through fraudulent claims, transferred into these shell companies. Helena Krol’s name, used as a front.
“So, you found my little ledger,” a voice said from the doorway.
Arthur spun around. Jonathan Hallowell stood there, pale and trembling, a snub-nosed revolver clutched in his shaking hand. His eyes darted nervously between Arthur and the open safe.
“It’s not what you think,” Hallowell stammered, his voice thin.
“It’s exactly what I think,” Arthur countered, his eyes fixed on the gun. “Fraud. Theft. Helena Krol was involved in your game.”
Hallowell swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “She was just… an account. A name.”
“A name Garrick used to hide his tracks,” Arthur finished, his gaze hardening. Hallowell was clearly terrified, not of Arthur, but of the wider implications.
“You’re in deep, Appraiser,” Arthur said, taking a slow step forward. “And you just implicated yourself.”
Hallowell’s hand tightened on the revolver. “Stay back! I… I don’t want any trouble.”
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