The Case of the Case

Detective Charley sat out of sight in the shadows as the villain shot the other man dead, shouting the whole time the location of the queen’s stolen jewels, who his accomplices were, all their past evil deeds, and why he had to shoot the man, thus solving the mystery before it had ever begun. Thankfully, the good detective had the foresight when he first set up this stakeout three years ago to install the latest sound and video recording devices throughout the entire alley. As long as the cameras hadn’t run out of tape, the evidence would be irrefutable, and this bad egg would be left to scramble in jail for the rest of his miserable life.

It struck the poor detective to the core as he watched the senseless murder. If only it was just some unfortunate lackey of a mob boss dying in that dark, dank, dreary, dismal, despairingly dirty alley instead of his old friend and comrade from Scotland Yard, William Williamsworth. He had been sent in undercover ten long years ago, and to think that this was his end- that of a common criminal in the midst of a bloody mafia war over the possession of the queen’s jewels and information on how to get past Buckingham Palace security in order to murder the queen.

Alas, there was no time to mourn his fallen compatriot. The villain could not be allowed to escape! Pressing the silent alarm set in the brick alley wall behind the dumpster with his left pinky finger, Detective Charley signaled to his partner hiding in the second story apartment over the coffee shop next to them to activate the high-power magnet hidden in the air conditioning unit set in the wall next to the fire escape.

It worked! With a yelp of surprise and a loud clang, the gun sprang free from its owner’s hand, hurtling towards the magnet. But there, it crashed through the innards of the air conditioning unit and caused the machinery to explode with tremendous force, knocking down the entire balustrade of the fire escape which came crashing down on top of the murdering thief.

When the dust had settled and the air cleared, Detective Charley’s partner, who had been much dismayed by the loud crashes and the possibility of his superior’s injury or death, called down, “All right down there, Detective?”

Standing up from his preferred place of protection behind the dumpster in the event of an unexpected accident, much like the one which had just occurred, and looking impeccably clean and not a bit flustered over the slight mishap, Detective Charley replied, “Certainly, wot wot, my good chap. Nothing a good cup of tea and a biscuit or two won’t fix, wot wot.”

Not two hours later, as the good police force of London thought the distressed calls regarding this incident required immediate attention, the head inspector himself was surveying the scene, accompanied by his best team of forensics, archaeologists, and coffee runners. Luckily, they did not have far to run, as there was a coffee shop adjacent to the alley where the murder took place.

Detective Charley proudly handed over the tapes, which had miraculously survived the explosion despite the cameras being blackened beyond recognition, containing the full account of the event to the inspector, beaming. “I believe you’ll find everything is in order here, Inspector, wot wot. All the same, I’ll have my full report on your desk first thing in the morning, wot wot.”

“Oh, capital, capital!” the burly inspector responded. There was nothing he loved more than a case solved with no loose ends in time for a light dinner and beer at the pub. Of course, there were more ruffians to be caught, but he could leave that messy affair for the night shift.

Seeing no more to be done for the moment, Detective Charley requested, “Unless there’s more needs doing here, Inspector, wot wot, mightn’t I not go home and see the missus for a moment or two before bowling”

After a successful three-year stakeout, the inspector thought the man deserved a little time off, but only a little, for there was no rest for the evil of the world, and so, there was no rest for Scotland Yard. “Capital thought there, my boy! Best not keep the lady waiting! Capital!”

With a quick salute and a cheeky grin to rival that of any young school boy thinking questionable thoughts, Detective Charley dashed twenty blocks down to the waterfront where he had parked his car three years ago. He was overjoyed to find that none of his tires had been stolen and his windows were all still intact, and with that, he drove off into the night.

The next morning, one of the coffee runners, a jumpy little lad, came scrambling through headquarters screaming, “Inspector! Inspector!”

When the inspector, who had been enjoying a nice, hot cup of tea, finally heard the demented boy’s yells, he threw open his office door, struck an imposing pose, and bellowed, “What in London’s sewers is going on here!”

The coffee runner, who had been thrown backwards when the inspector’s office door caught him full in the face, sat up and held out a small, pink post-it to the inspector. “Mr. Inspector! It’s horrible news, it is!”

The inspector took the note with all the slow, lazy grace of an Englishman, but his face went purple with rage when he read its contents. “Blasted night shift!” he yelled with the force of a hurricane. “Someone get me Detective Charley on the phone!”

One of the officers seated at his desk nearby immediately began dialing the detective’s cell number, completely unnerved by the inspector’s show of fury.

“I don’t believe this,” the inspector mumbled to himself as he staggered back into his office and slumped in his chair behind the desk. He still held the dreadful, pink post-it. On it was scrawled, in the messy hand of the head night shift inspector: “Raided for jewels…nothing here…” The inspector had left them very specific instructions on where to find the queen’s stolen jewels. Even those idiots on night shift patrol should have been able to find it.

That only left one alternative: someone else had stolen the queen’s stolen jewels.

At that moment, the officer who was trying to call Detective Charley poked his head into the inspector’s office. “Inspector, sir, nobody’s picking up on Charley’s end.”

The inspector’s hopes sank even lower. He needed his best man on this one, and after one tiny three-year stakeout, the guy thought he could take the day off.

“Um, sir,” the officer continued. “There’s more. I asked Intel. to do a quick search, and—well –it seems that Detective Charley left the country late last night.”

The inspector heaved a giant sigh. “Fine, get Detective Bonkers on the case, and keep trying to get a hold of Charley. If he’s in France, tell him to bring me back a decent bottle of wine. Queen knows I’ll need it before this case is over.”