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Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Aug 14, 2017 4:07:51 GMT -5
Literary Mosaic 1
Murder of a Doctor Part One: Adolf Gunnarson
It was the height of World War II. I was fighting hard in the British Army, trying to stop the Nazis. The noise was deafening, and I would often find myself in terror and homesick. During one of the battles, it happened - a shot rang out, and I felt a pain in my leg. I stumbled and fell. If it had not have been for my good friend John, I would surely have died. As it was, he saw me fall, rushed over, helped me to my feet, and brought me away from the danger zone. After being dispatched from the army hospital, I was told that I could not fight for a good long while, at the least. So, I decided to return home. I sailed on a ship called the Friend across the sea. It was a nightmare. I get seasick quite easily, and the rolling waves forced me to stay in my cabin lying on the bunk for most of the trip. I was quite glad to get back to dry land. Unfortunately, my house had been destroyed during the Blitz, and so I found myself out on the London streets, with little money, looking for a place to stay.
It was unbelievable, the news I had been hearing in recent weeks. Now that it was Mid-1941, the Nazis had effectively conquered Europe... except Switzerland, but they never get conquered anyway. Belgium, France, Poland... they've all fallen to Germany. Now the United Kingdom stands alone. I thought I could play my part, but now here I was, injured by the war, homeless, while all the other men were off fighting. The news from a while back that the battleship Bismarck had been sunk was a morale boost to say the least... but the loss of Hood was a heavy cost. Then I remembered... Roger, my brother. He was off in the Navy, but his family still lived in the house. I mean, I could ask if they could let me stay for a day or two, just to figure out what I'm going to do next. I'd better go now... if I'm every going to eat, I need to get some ration cards.
As I walked to the town where Roger lived, I stopped before at an inn, and, just so that I knew that I was headed to the right place, I asked the innkeeper about him. "Who? Roger Hartley? You didn't hear? Why, his family up and sold the place before when the Blitz became worse. They're now living in Scotland. By the way, why'd you want to know?" "I'm his brother, and have just returned from the frontline, only to find my house was bombed." "Ah, I see. Shame, really, all those damn Germans." I thanked him, and then turned to go, when he suddenly said, "Say, I might have something for you. A foreigner - a Swede, I think - came in just this morning, wondering if I knew anyone that would like to share rooms. That might be what you're looking for." "I'd be happy to meet him." "Then it's settled. Let me just finish up, and I'll take you to him."
So I sat there, thinking. Clearly I had gotten lucky; this section of town didn't get hit that hard... at least, this street anyway. I hadn't been able to see that much recently. The innkeeper finished cleaning up the tables then came up to me. "Sorry for the wait. Come on now, I'll show you where you can stay for now." I could only think about my extended family... was there at least an address left behind that I could reach them? Roger always was the one who was good with girls... I could talk to them, but I never could work up the courage to ask one out. How does he do it? Already a wife and three kids and he's only..." "Sir? Mr. Hartley?" the Innkeeper said. "Oh... yes? Sorry, I was lost in thought," I said apologetically.
So he brought me to a nice little apartment building. We walked up to the second floor, and the innkeeper knocked on the door. "Who is it?" asked a voice with a Swedish accent. "Mr. Gunnarson? It's the John Beacon, the innkeeper from the Red Devil's." The 'Mr. Gunnarson' opened he door. He was of medium height, had blond hair, and a handlebar moustache. "Hej! Hello! Welcome to my humble apartment." "Hello, Mr. Gunnarson. You mentioned that would like to share rooms with someone to cut the cost. I've brought around someone that might be interested." "James Hartley," I said, extending my hand. "Adolf Gunnarson," said the man, doing the same. "Adolf? Like..." He looked a bit pained. "Ja, like the German. I am not to blame for my name, though." "True." "James here lost his house in the Blitz, and with no where to go he needs a place to stay," John said. "Ah yes. Come in Mr. Hartley, I will show you around my apartment," and he gestured to let me into the room. This must be the living room; it wasn't big, but it was not small either. It was quite clean, and I could hear music coming from the radio.
"This is a nice place you have here," I said to Adolf. As I looked around, the one bedroom I could see had only one bed; I was not surprised, after all I think this apartment was meant for only one or two. "Am I to sleep on the couch?" I asked politely. "If you wanted to, ja. I thought ahead, and the couch is actually a pull-out bed. So you won't be technically sleeping on the couch." "And we would share the cost?" "Yes." "Seems alright. I'll give it a shot." I turned to the innkeeper. "Many thanks." "Quite welcome." And he left.
As I settled into the apartment, it was not all that difficult to make myself at home. I only had the one suitcase of "civvies", and the military uniform I was wearing now, so I took a seat and looked at the bookshelf. "Do you have any Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?" I asked; I loved a good book, and it had been so long to me. "Ja, third shelf" Adolf said as he walked towards the kitchen. I walked to the bookshelf and began looking. "I've heard that you Englishmen enjoy a cup of tea; shall I go boil some water?" He asked me as he stood up and faced the kitchen. I had just found a copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles when I heard his question. "If it's no bother, then I'd be happy to have some." "Kommer rรคtt upp!" I had already starting into the first chapter when he handed me a cup with tea. "Thank you," I said. "Quite welcome! I myself let a cup of chocolate." "Interesting," I said, sipping my cup.
"What do you plan to do?" Adolf asked. "I'm not sure really; my plan was to stick around for a little while, then try to make plans for what I was going to do next, but with my brother's family moved, that plan became complicated," I explained. "Well, you are welcome here," he said to me. "Thank you; I think I will sit for a while, then I will head down to get my ration cards," I said, remembering that they were important. "Ah yes, most food stuff is rationed now: bacon, butter and sugar, meat, tea, jam, biscuits, breakfast cereals, cheese, eggs, lard, milk and canned and dried fruit. The only stuff not rationed it what people find disgusting, like whale meat," he said to me. "Whale meat!?" I exclaimed in shock. "Yes; it is quite good though, makes for a nice steak." "Hmm... maybe I ought to try it."
We sat there, as we drank from our cups. "So," I said at last, "what are you? What made you decide to move to England?" "I moved here because I can work on my occupation better here than in Sweden." "What is your occupation?" "Ah!" he said. "If you stick around, I'm sure you'll find out soon enough." "Well, I will be sticking around for the time being," I said as I stood up. "Thank you very much for the tea, but now I have to get going; I need to get my ration books from the distributor," I said as I began making my way for the door. "I wonder if it is true what they've been saying? America still won't enter the war; just this 'cash and carry' I've been hearing about," I said to myself; so much news recently, so little time to process it all. "Say, what ship is your brother on?" Adolf said as I was walking to the door. "Oh; HMS King George V; fine battleship it is; if I find it I'll show you a picture," I said as I was making my way to the door. "No need. But did you know that that was one of the ships that sunk the Bismarck?" "Wow," I said, "that IS interesting."
I returned from getting my ration cards to find Gunnarson setting the table for supper. "Something smells good," I said. "It's a special recipe that my mother taught me. I hope you enjoy it." I did indeed. It was a special type of meatballs. "These are Swedish meatballs; a bit different from the kind Italians make, but I hope you'll enjoy it," he said. As I got ready, I was thinking back; it had been a few months since Bismarck was sunk, I was surprised I hadn't heard from Roger; surely I'd have gotten a letter about that incident? There was probably a lot going on, so I'll give him time. As I went to sit down, he continued talking. "I hope you don't mind; I mostly know Swedish food. I was going to make Kroppkakor tomorrow" he said. "What's that?" I asked. "A type of meat filled potato dumpling," he said back. "Well if you want, I can show you some good English food; if I'm not mistaken there's a fish and chips shop still standing that I passed on the way here," I explained to him. "Well, come on now, let's eat," he said as I began to sit down.
It was delicious. I thoroughly enjoyed the Swedish meatballs; they were different, but, as many people say, different is good. After we finished dinner, I washed the dishes, and then the two of us sat down in the living room and started to read. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Gunnarson went to open it. "Yes?" "Mr. Gunnarson?" "Ah! Hej!" And he opened the door. "Hartley," he said, "this is Davis Gent, the chief of police at Scotland Yard." "Pleased to meet you," he said. "Same," I replied. "Now, what brings you here?" asked Gunnarson. "Well, it's not a pretty business. A murder was committed up in King Street." "A murder!" I cried. Being in war time was hard enough, but for there to be a murder during these troubled times... it was too much to fathom. "Well, what is it?" Gunnarson asked. "Well, the victim was Dr. Manning, but I think you should come and see for yourself," Gent explained. "We'll have to finish our conversation later Hartley; duty calls," he said as he went to the rack to get his hat and coat. Then he turned round again. "Actually, if you've got nothing better to do, and seeing as that you'll be here for a bit, why don't you come along?" "Uh..." "If it's alright with Gent, of course." "Fine with me." "Well... I've got nothing better to do, sure I'll come." I got my coat, and we entered the cab. "So are you a detective?" "Yes. Not a police detective though, an inofficiella detektiv - an unofficial detective."
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Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Aug 14, 2017 4:15:56 GMT -5
Part Two: The Trifecta
Our cab pulled up across from a dark alley; we exited the cab and payed the man as we approached. We entered the door into a well decorated room. "Dr. Herbert Manning; a rather respected member of society with few known enemies; who would want him dead?" I said to myself; I knew him by name and face, but not personally. Gent led us to the crime scene, by now secure. Gunnarson looked around. "Well whoever it was, it was someone Manning trusted," he observed. "That's a rather fast conclusion; why say that?" I asked. He pointed to a table with a half-full bottle and two glasses. "Well, I don't know about you, but I don't think I'd sit down and enjoy a bottle of Merlot with a stranger," he said with a straight face. I gaped. "Wow... I wouldn't have come up with that!" "Ah well, we're all different."
We looked at the body. The man was sitting upright in his chair, but with a knife in his shoulder. "Ouch," I said. Gunnarson looked at the body. "Hmm..." "Well, see anything?" asked Gent. "Yes; killer made his first mistake. This knife he left behind is bound to have fingerprints. I would suggest you carefully remove it, then look for prints," Gunnarson said as the officials complied. Looking closer at the victim, he made another conclusion. "Well, whoever we are dealing with, he knows anatomy; look, he stabbed into the neck. Cut the airway, but not the artery. That's why there is less blood present than we would expect," he elaborated. I stood back. Clearly he was in some sort of "mode" where he was able to figure out things by mere glance; best not to get in his way, I reasoned. "Actually," said Gent, "we already checked for fingerprints, and found none. He must've been wearing gloves." "I see," said Gunnarson, as he looked around some more. "Ah ha!" he said suddenly. "What is it?" I asked. "This!" and he presented a interesting object. "Do you see this?" He said. He was indicating the food on the table. "What is it?" Gent asked. "Escargo; surprised he got his hands on some with the war and all," Gunnarson said. "But whoever this is, he's got a thing for French cuisine. Not everyone around here likes snails, you know."
Gunnarson kept searching around the room for evidence. I had been standing, watching what he was doing, when I took a step back - tripped - and fell. "Oof!" I said. Gunnarson helped me up, looked past me at the ground, and stared. "Well, well, well, what have we here?" It was a cane. "Interesting," he said as he picked up the cane from the bottom. "Dr. Manning was quite good on his feet. Which means this cane must belong to the killer, as only he and manning were in this room. Gent, have this checked for prints," he said as the officials took action. He noticed the initials on the cane, "C.P." in a fancy script. "Well hello there... looks like we have the killers' initials." "Actually, that might be the doctor's walking stick," said Gent. "C.P. could stand for something like 'common practitioner." "Oh," said Gunnarson. "I see." But I was confused. "I thought you said that Dr. Manning was well on his feet, why would he need a walking stick?" I asked; trying to be useful. "Well," said Gent, "there are lots of people that walk fine, but have walking sticks. It makes them look more respectable." "But if he was a doctor, wouldn't it be General practitioner, not common practitioner?" I asked. "That is a fair point; until we can be 100 percent certain, I would suggest that we do not necessarily dismiss this lead just yet," Gunnarson suggested. Then he began looking around the chair Manning was sitting at for clues.
Once Gunnarson had seen all he wanted, we left. "Notify me when anything new pops up," he said to Gent. "Will do. Thanks for your help."
We had gotten back to the apartment, when he showed me his bedroom. On the wall where there was a window, in front of the window was a giant chalkboard, covering a good portion of the wall, and all the window. "So, what now?" I asked. "First, I compile all I know, then put it together to figure out the next step," he explained to me. He began writing on the board. "We know, for starters, that the man who killed Dr. Manning was in his inner circle, as in someone that he trusted. So they must be of the same social level and class. Secondly, we know that the killer enjoys Merlot and escargo, and Dr. Manning trusted him enough to enjoy a meal with him. We also know that he has a significant knowledge of the human body, to have made that stab and get little blood everywhere." "So... enjoys Merlot and escargo, anaotomical knowledge, Dr. Manning's inner circle," I said back. "Right. Now, the boys will get back to us after they've looked at the evidence, but now there is the trifecta we have to consider." "The trifecta?" "Means, motive, opportunity. The knife was the means, and the opportunity was the dinner. The question now becomes- motive," Gunnarson said to me as he kept writing. "It could be anything," I pointed out. "Not necessarily. You see, murder has three motives - money, love and revenge," he said as he wrote the words on the board. "Well, Dr. Manning was a good man, loyal to his wife, and he wasn't a known gambler. Which means..." he said as he gestured to me. "...someone wanted revenge?" I asked. "Correct. The question now is - who did Manning wrong, and what did he do that would cause the killer to want revenge?" Gunnarson said, looking over the board. I looked at him; he seemed to be deep in thought; to me, it seemed that all was silent and still around him, and I feared to move, for that could break his concentration. "Overall," said Gunnarson, "I think that we're dealing with a doctor." "A doctor?" "Yes. After all, the killer knew about the human body, so it's most probable that he was a medical man." "I see," I said. I was feeling rather tired at that point, so I decided to call it a night there. "Well, This has been a long day and I am rather tired; I hope you do not mind, but I think I will go turn in now," I said as I went to the bathroom to start getting ready for bed. I do not think he heard me, actually, because I couldn't help but notice he just kept staring at the blackboard.
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Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Aug 14, 2017 4:22:46 GMT -5
Part Three: The Accusation The next morning, I woke up to the smell of coffee and eggs. "Good morning," said Gunnarson as I got up. "Good morning," I said. "Help yourself," said Gunnarson, indicating the food. "Thanks," I said, and dug in.
"Any leads on the case?" I asked, curious. "Well this might be stereotypical of me, but I did some research on Dr. Manning's close relationships, and found he was very familiar with many French doctors; he was even working on new types of medicines with them closely before the war happened," answered Gunnarson. "I see. But these relationships don't actually tell us much, do they?" I asked. "No, they don't. Luckily, three of them live in this town. Pierre Sartre, Louie Beaumont and Calvin Poirier all fled here early on in the war, and I am going to go have a chat with them after breakfast," he explained to me. "Calvin Poirier... C.P.... you don't think?" I asked in shock. "Now hold on; best not to jump to conclusions. Remember, it takes more than one piece to make a puzzle," Gunnarson informed.
So, after breakfast, he left, and returned shortly before lunch. "How did it go?" I asked him. "Quite well. I've got a good feeling about this case... though I'm going to wait a bit longer before I make up my mind totally." So, over lunch, he told me how it went. "I only had enough time to go and visit Dr. Satre, as the others I couldn't find at home. He was rather shocked that Dr. Manning was found dead last night." "Really? Could be just a show he put on." "No no, that was genuine grief. They had been good friends since the Great War. I was interviewing him and found out some interesting things. And I can tell you - he's not the killer." "Why say that?" "I was taking note of how I found the knife, and based on the angle of the wound, I was able to conclude that the killer is left handed," he said to me. "And?" I asked. "Dr. Satre is right handed." he followed up. "Ah," I said, "that makes sense."
After lunch, Gunnarson went out again to find the other two. He came back looking pleased with himself. "Well, how was it?" So he told me. "I managed to talk to the both of them, and both do share traits with the killer. Escargo, medical knowledge and the rest." He said. "So you know who killed Manning?" I asked, amazed. "Not yet," he said, "I'm going to do a bit more hunting around before I decide."
Later that day, I was sitting around, and having nothing to do, picked up a pen and a piece of paper. "What are you writing?" asked Gunnarson. "An account of the murder, and what's been going on." "Ah! may I read it once you are up to date?" "Certainly." So, once I finished, I handed it to Gunnarson. He read it, and when he finished, he exclaimed, "Oh, thank you my friend. Your little manuscript has helped me tremendously!" "Really?" "Yes, for I know who the murderer is!" "What! Already?!" "Yes. Let us start from the beginning, and I will explain my reasonings: "First of all, the food - merlot and escargot are French. So whoever killed him might have been French, or lived in France. "Second, the cane - it said C.P. Now, I was thinking it over - what if it wasn't cut right, and was meant to say 'G.P.', but instead came out as 'C.P.'?" "Interesting," I said. "Indeed," said Gunnarson. "Now the third point - the medical knowledge." "It must have been a doctor." "Or someone who trained to be a doctor, and had been in France before. In fact - you!"
"What, me?" I said in disbelief. That couldn't be right, I said to myself. I had only come home a little while ago, and had hardly seen anyone. "How could you say it was me?" I said in shock. "The only things I have done since coming back are wander the streets and live here," I told him. I knew there was something I had to do to convince him, so I went to the chalkboard. "Look, remember what you told me the other day about means motive and opportunity? I had none of those. I don't own a knife like the one used to kill manning, so I didn't have the means, we're not in the same circle and I don' have a mutual friend, so there's no opportunity, and he didn't owe me money, do anything bad enough for me to warrant revenge or steal love from me, so I had no motive. How could you say I'm the murderer?" I finished; now I wasn't so sure if I could trust him anymore.
"Ah," said Gunnarson, "let us take it up in order: "Means: You say that you didn't own a knife like the one that killed Dr. Manning. And I say that you are right! You didn't own the knife. Dr. Manning owned the knife! "Motive: I was looking through Dr. Manning's past, and found that he once worked as a teacher in a medical school. One of his students was you. So I have no doubt that you went to his house to catch up on old times, and while you were there, killed him." "But why?" I asked. "Because he wronged you once. I do not know why he did, but he did, and you never forgave him. So, as he was sitting down, you took up a knife and stabbed him in the shoulder, in a certain way you learned in medical school. "Finally, opportunity: Reading through your manuscript brought me to realize that instead of going to your house, you went to his. There was enough time to kill him, and his body wasn't found until later, by which time, you had already come here. "That in and of itself was a coincidence. You did not intend to live with a detective. "Now, this itself is not what made me come to the conclusion that you did it. Reading the manuscript is what made me realize that you did it. "There were two reasons: Firstly, the escargot and the merlot. Both are French, and you have been in France for some time. You had developed a taste for both, and Dr. Manning liked it as well. That's why you ate it there. "Secondly: you had been talking about certain things of Dr. Manning that only someone who knew him would say." "Like what?" "For instance, you said that I said that he was well on his feet. When I thought back, I couldn't remember myself thinking that - until I remembered that you had said it previously." I sat there, not moving. Finally, I slumped forward and put my head in my hands. "You're right," I said. "I did do it." "Ah ha!" Gunnarson stated triumphantly. "Now that the truth is out, you might as well tell me everything." Gunnarson said. "Well, it was back when I was a student and he had blackmailed me to... Maybe we should go our separate ways," I said as I stood up to get my stuff. I had just gotten the last of my things when Gunnarson stood behind me as I went to exit. "I'm afraid I can't let you leave," he said as he began reaching into his shirt... Where I saw the handle of a revolver. Horrified, I struck him across the head with my bag, giving me a few seconds to bolt out the door and down the hall.
BANG!!!
BANG!!!
Two shots rang out and struck the wall as I continued fleeing. "Get back here! Gunnarson always gets his man!" He screamed as he bolted after me, a third shot ringing out. Without even thinking, I went for the nearby window, and jumped out to the street below. I was stunned for a moment as a fourth shot nearly grazed me. "You cannot get away!!" Gunnarson screamed as he aimed from the window. I took off and ran, hearing shots five and six hit the pavement as I bolted down the street and around the corner. In the distance, I could hear Gunnarson screaming for me to come back and "face what's coming" but I knew I couldn't go back. I took off and bolted, trying to put as much distance between me and him.
Several hours later, I had made my way to Euston train station. At a phone booth I managed to get in touch with my brother's wife, who was thrilled to hear that I was home. "Roger is still in the navy, but we made our way to Glasgow a few months ago and have been here since." "Listen, my house was bombed, and I've got no where to go..." "Of course. We'll be expecting you," she said as we hung up. Some time later, I had got a train ticket and was on a train to Glasgow. As we made our way down the line, I caught a glimpse of Gunnarson, standing outside the inn talking to some officers, including Gent most likely. I saw them, but they didn't see me. I decided to keep my head down and stay quiet. Once we were outside the city, I closed my eyes and settled in for a nap. Dr. Manning's deed to me was unforgivable, but I could put it all behind me now. I settled in for a nap and prepared to enjoy the trip...
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Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Aug 14, 2017 4:23:33 GMT -5
Okay..... I did not see that coming.
Now that I've finished reading through Hartley's manuscript, I realize that he intended to get this published with his name cleared, and mine blemished. I am glad I have found it in time. You might not believe me, but this is what really happened:
"Would you like to explain it?" I asked. "Might as well," said Hartley. "You see, there was a girl in the school who I fell for. Unfortunately, she became deathly ill. When she was sent to the hospital, Dr. Manning was the doctor who took care of her. Unfortunately, she still died, and I've no doubt that he killed her purposely." I rose. "You must have been quite mistaken. Anyways, I shall now-" "Don't move!" said Hartley, pulling out a gun. I stood still as he ran out of the room. I would have told the police next morning, however, the paper made me change my mind. "SECOND MURDER IN LONDON IN TWO DAYS! JAMES HARTLEY DEAD!" I have no doubt that Hartley took his own life, but only after finishing the manuscript.... but with an alternate ending.
And so came the end of the sad state of affairs of Dr. Mannings murder.
~ADOLF GUNNARSON~
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Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Aug 14, 2017 4:26:25 GMT -5
Second Edition Postscript: Well, after all these years, it is about time that I come clean. I published this manuscript to get some money in my pocket after coming back from the war. And I had to invent an ending in order to make it more interesting. Because what really happened... was rather uninteresting, and somewhat embarrassing.
*** Gunnarson had just gotten back from visiting the other two doctors, and was explaining to me what he had found out. "So do you know who killed him?" I asked. "Yes... after looking at the evidence... it doesn't make any sense," he said to me. "What do you mean?" I asked. "Well, Dr. Piorier was the one who had the meal with Manning that night, but he recalls nothing of his death. But he did say you came to visit as well..." Gunnarson said. "What? Are you saying that it looks like..." I asked. "Yes. Crazy as it sounds; but it looks like you are the murderer," he said calmly. "What?! Impossible, I don't even know Dr. Manning! I only knew him by face, not personally!" I said. "Did you go to medical school?" Gunnarson asked. "No! Once the war broke out I was drafted, and did not come home to civilian life until two days ago!" I said. "I don't believe you," Gunnarson said. I pulled out my gun and pointed it at him. "Well... how do I know you're not trying to frame me!" I said. Gunnarson thought it over. "Look, something does not feel right about this case. You should leave, for your own good." "Ok," I said, and left to get my things.
What happened next was rather... embarrassing for the both of us. "Thanks for everything Gunnarson. You're rather polite... for a Swede," I said as I opened the door. "For a Swede?" Gunnarson said, confused. "For a Swede!? What does that mean!?" "N-No! What I mean is..." But he had already pulled out his revolver. He started shooting at me as I ran down the hall. Three shots in the hallway, before I leaped out the window and ran off, three more shots following. After that; I ended up getting a train in Euston to Glasgow, where I spent the next several months with my brother's family.
I hope you will forgive my bending of the truth... especially my friend Adolf Gunnarson.
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