Apeshit Read online

  “I don’t know who you are,” Wilson rasped, “but I thank you for showing up when you did. A moment later, and I would’ve been done for.”

  Flaherty jabbed one thumb toward the Sleuth and said, “This here’s a Mr. Saunders, come down from the war department…”

  “That’s right,” the Sleuth interrupted. “I’ll have to ask you what you’ve got in this package, and who wants it bad enough to kill you for it.”

  Wilson didn’t hesitate. “I don’t know, exactly. Some sort of antique, jewelry I think. I was merely bringing it Stateside at the request of Montgomery Fisk.”

  The Sleuth’s eyes widened. “Montgomery Fisk? The industrialist?”

  “The same. You see, my father was Mr. Fisk’s butler since…before I was born until his death last year. Mr. Fisk liked children, and doted on those of his servants just as much as his own. In fact, I believe he offered me every opportunity that he provided for his own son. So when he asked me to meet up with his man, pick up a package and bring it home, I could hardly refuse. He said it was some valuable antique and that he needed someone he could trust, I assured him he could rely upon me.”

  “Have you any idea who may be after it?” the Sleuth persisted.

  “No, not specifically,” Wilson replied. “But if it’s some valuable artifact, I expect any number of thieves would be interested in it. I’ve never even opened the package, so all I know is what I was told when I picked it up. It was implied to be a piece of jewelry, and there was some nonsense about a curse.”

  The deck hand snorted and poked his elbow into the Sleuth’s ribs. “Hardly sounds like war secrets, eh, Mr. Saunders?”

  The Sleuth regarded the package with disappointment in his eyes. “No, no, it doesn’t.” A feeling in his gut told him there was more to the mystery, but that he could not dig deeper in his current identity. Hiding his regret, he held the package out to the first mate. “Well, I guess this is out of my department. Here you go, Mr. Wilson, sorry for the questions.”

  “Not at all,” the mate replied as he took the box in his hands.

  “However, there has been one attempt on your life,” the Sleuth continued, “if you’d like I could make a few calls, get a man assigned to help you guard that until you get it to Fisk.”

  Wilson smiled in gratitude. “That shouldn’t be necessary. He’s expecting me first thing in the morning. Besides, I have a whole boatload of trustworthy men to stand guard for me. All I have to do is ask.”

  “Sure and that’s right!” Flaherty exclaimed, punching the air for emphasis. “In fact, ya don’t even have to ask! Oy’ll stand watch over ya tonight, Mr. Wilson. Rest assured that nobody will get past me, now that I know to be lookin’ for ‘em!” He was not the only volunteer.

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  Late the following morning found the Sleuth, sans mustache or mask, at the wheel of a Ford Sedan. In the seat beside him sat Jane Wayland, seasoned reporter from the Stockport Globe, twirling her long blond locks around one finger, an anxious gesture that he found endearing.

  “Byron?” It was not his own name, but his twin brother’s. Nonetheless, he had long ago learned to answer to it as Brian Twain had been legally dead for years. “Are you sure you can get me in to see Montgomery Fisk? He never sees reporters. Too important for us, I suppose.”

  Brian smiled. “Don’t worry; I’m an important man, too,” he said with playful pomp. “Monty is an old family friend. Don’t forget, he used to work for my father before he managed to buy his first steel mill, and made his own fortune. I’m sure he’ll see us.”

  Before long the Sedan pulled onto the Fisk estate through a pair of wrought iron gates. The massive house stood surrounded by green hills and colorful flower gardens, flanked by shady trees that rustled in a slight breeze that offered no relief from the summer heat. In a matter of minutes, they were inside the manor speaking with the man himself, in his study overlooking the gardens.

  Montgomery Fisk was a short man in his early sixties. His gray hair was thinning, but still covered his head. His eyes were sharp and alert behind thin spectacles that were attached to his jacket lapel by a lanyard. He offered a warm welcome to his visitors, also believing the Sleuth to be Byron Twain. Jane was introduced both as a reporter and the police commissioner’s daughter. Fisk played the proper host, bade them to sit, offered them coffee. The obligatory small talk was amicable, but cut short as Jane wasted no time getting down to business.

  “Mr. Fisk, I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but I’m most anxious to ask you about this mystery package of yours! From what I’ve heard, what was meant to be a secret arrival in the middle of the night was spoiled. As soon as the ship docked, a thief attempted to steal it. Shots were fired; they say a man was killed…”

  Fisk forced out a good-natured chuckle and held up one hand to stop her. “The account you’ve heard is greatly exaggerated, which is no surprise to me.” He sat back in his chair and regarded them over his steepled fingers. “First of all, it was far from a “secret arrival”. It was no secret, merely private business. I understand that there was a robbery attempt, which was thwarted. Only one shot was fired—at the robber—which may have missed entirely as no body has yet been found.”

  Brian sat, feigning only polite interest in the account as Jane scribbled frantic notes on her pad. Jane looked up sharply. “But the package itself, what is it?”

  “Ah! Here, let me show you!” With joyful exuberance, he ducked behind his desk and pulled out the box. It had been opened, and the crinkled brown paper was folded back over it in an untidy fashion. He placed the bundle on the desktop, peeled the paper away from a cardboard box. He opened the shipping box, burrowed his hands deep into the protective padding of dried grasses and pulled out a small wooden box, covered in ornate carvings.

  Brian and Jane leaned forward in their seats and Fisk laid the ornate box before them on the desk. “A new acquisition for my private collection,” he grinned and slid the lid to one side as though it was on rails. Within the box was a round ceramic pendant, about the size of a pocket watch, on a frayed twine necklace. Fisk lifted it from the box with a gentle hand and displayed it proudly to his guests. On the pendant was a picture: the sun’s beams fighting through the clouds to shine upon a hilly countryside, all this encircled by a ring of strange foreign letters. “It is a piece of Asian history! It is meant to have two brothers. Together, the Chinese call them the Keys to Wisdom!”

  Brian hummed critically. “An interesting piece, Monty.”

  “Yes,” Jane agreed, “But it doesn’t look to me to be a key at all. What are they all about?”

  “Once upon a time, the land now known as China was a collection of small kingdoms, lesser states, and warring tribes. They each had a different philosophy toward life, collectively known as the Hundred Schools of Thought,” Fisk explained. “Then the first dynasty was installed, China was unified and the conquerors proceeded to promote their way of thinking, and eradicate all others. This procedure is known as the Burning of Books and Burying of Scholars. One such scholar, Mo Tzu, built a secret library to preserve the knowledge and wisdom of his philosophy. Then, he fashioned these pendants and presented them to his three most faithful followers before his death, promising that together they would guide one to his cache of wisdom. At least, that’s how the fable goes. Of course, no such storehouse has ever been found.”

  Brian laughed, sat back in his chair. “A nice bedtime story! All that’s missing is a curse!”

  Fisk lowered the pendant back into its box. “It’s funny you should say that, Byron. In fact, there is meant to be a curse! One of the carriers of Mo Tzu’s keys was captured by the authorities and issued a curse upon the pendants. Anyone who possessed them, who had no intention of seeking Mo Tzu’s wisdom, would be bedeviled by some sort of evil spirit. A yellow demon, or some such foolishness!”

  An unearthly cry reverberated through the study and a furry humanoid beast dropped onto the desk. The three jumped back with a start
as it screeched at them with a gray skull-like face surrounded by a mane of golden-brown hair. It stood about two feet tall, with long, thin limbs and a long catlike tail. With quick, jerky movements it scanned the desktop and seized the ornate box.

  Fisk reached out with one urgent hand. “Now see here, you little thief!” The hairy monster hissed at him, bearing a pair of white fangs and Fisk drew back with a cry of alarm. Before the shock of its arrival could dissipate fully, the beast leapt from the desk, bounded across the marble floor, and jumped onto the sill of an open window. “The pendant!” Fisk exclaimed.

  As though the industrialist’s cry had broken some enthrallment cast by the creature, Brian leapt for the open window. Leaning out, he looked in all directions and found the impish simian picking out handholds among the wisteria and vines that covered a nearby trellis. It soon climbed over the gutter and disappeared. “Quick! It’s on the roof!”

  “This way!” Fisk barked as he led the charge into the hall, up the wide stairs and out onto a second-floor balcony.

  Jane pointed off to their left where the monkey scampered across the dormers. “There it is!”

  Brian climbed over the railing onto the shingles. “I’m going after it!”

  “Be careful, my boy! I’ll get the groundskeepers armed with the hunting rifles!” Fisk announced as he rushed back into the manor.

  “Byron! What can I do to help?”

  He stopped and looked back. “You’d best stay in the house, Jane, out of harm’s way.”

  With a frown and clenched fists, she groaned in exasperation. Brian rushed over the shingled roof as she stomped her way back into the manor.

  Brian traversed the sloping roof as quickly as he dared. Suddenly there was an inquisitive chattering above him. He looked up and saw the golden brown monkey watching him from the apex of a dormer. “There you are!” He jumped for the furry thief, but it retreated from view with a call not unlike mocking laughter.

  He slipped, caught himself, then walked up beside the dormer, following the monkey. Brian climbed up to the peak of the second story roof and looked down the far slope where he found his thief sitting beside a pot-shaped ornament on the cornice. He crawled over the apex and down the incline, picking his way with quiet care. In moments he crept upon the distracted monkey, reached out one hand.

  Brian grabbed it by the scruff of the neck as a thundercrack sounded on the ground below. In the same heartbeat, the cornice exploded where the monkey had been standing. Startled, Brian jumped, began to slide toward the edge of the roof. Instinct made him release the thief and save himself by grasping the nearby ornament. The monkey bounded across the roof, shrieking.

  “Careful there, Tom,” Fisk admonished the gunman. “You nearly got Mr. Twain!”

  “Sorry, sir!” replied the servant, as he tried once more to get the monkey in his sights.

  “Byron, are you all right?” Fisk called up.

  “Fine, Monty!” Brian said with a reassuring wave. “Have your men route that beast back to this end of the house!”

  “Will do!” the industrialist consented.

  Brian climbed to his feet and set off after the monkey. A gunshot rang out to his right, beyond the peak of the great house. Then another shot, a screech, and the sound of raining shingles. The hairy thief appeared on the apex of the roof, and ran along the horizon of the peak as shingles exploded behind it. Brian ran along the roof, keeping pace with the simian burglar.

  The shingles ahead of the monkey erupted with volcanic force, and the thief jumped with a cry of panic. Brian made a short leap up the incline and caught the monkey in his arms. The beast looked up at him with its skull-like face and let loose a spine-chilling shriek. The thief struggled to escape with enough force to throw Brian off-balance. Brian stumbled about in an effort to stay upright, but the broken shingles shifted beneath his feet. Both he and his hairy catch rolled down the incline and fell over the edge amid a shower of debris.

  Brian Twain fell one story and landed in the soft loam of a flower bed, azaleas and begonias flattened beneath him. A quick assessment proved that he suffered no serious damage. He picked himself up and quickly spied the pendant’s box a few feet away. He stumbled toward it when Jane’s voice yelled out behind him, “Byron, look out!”

  Brian spun about and gawked in wide-eyed shock at an advancing Chinaman with ten inches of sharpened steel raised for the kill. Jane clung to his back, both arms wrapped about the villain’s neck. Brian noted that this was not the man from the freighter, though dressed in similar costume.

  Brian let fly a roundhouse that connected with the villain’s jaw and followed with a left hook. While stunned, the long knife was knocked from the murderer’s hand with ease.

  Undaunted, the Chinaman twirled around in a sloppy pirouette. The momentum swung Jane’s feet out in a wide circle where her hard shoes struck Brian’s head with lethal force. The Chinaman finished his spin and Jane’s own weight pulled her off of him. The assassin advanced upon Brian, who clutched his head in agony, and dropped him to the flower bed with a single blow.

  As Brian lay groaning in the dirt, the Chinaman stepped over him, bent down, plucked the ornate box from the ground.

  “No, you don’t!” Brian cried as he seized the brigand’s ankle with one hand. The Chinaman fell into the loam with a cry of alarm. With a frown, the Chinaman tried to pull his leg free while rattling off his native tongue in an urgent tone.

  Jane screamed as the skull-faced monkey bounded past her with the long knife in its paws. The monkey leapt onto Brian’s back and drove the blade through his thin coat and into his flesh. Brian cried out in anguish, let loose his grip on the thug.

  The Chinaman jumped to his feet and bolted across the gardens to an awaiting sedan with the box in hand. A sharp command prompted the murderous monkey to follow. The groundskeepers rounded the corner of the manor, with Fisk leading the charge. They leveled their rifles and fired as the fiend and his animal companion climbed into his car and sped away.

  Brian watched the car race away with hatred in his heart. Then his eyes fell to a scrap of paper, incongruous in the trampled flower bed. He reached out, nabbed it, and held it tight in a clenched fist even as Jane demanded an ambulance.

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  A few short hours later, Brian Twain was in a private room in Stockport General Hospital where Jane Wayland hovered over him like a mother hen. The knife had been removed from his back and given to the police, the wound stitched and bandaged. Brian was then placed in a room for overnight observation, and the nurses came and went in a steady stream under Jane’s careful scrutiny. Eventually, a man in a white doctor’s coat entered.

  “Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Saunders.”

  At the sound of the name, Brian looked up with immediate interest. He didn’t recognize the face with the bulbous nose and sagging jowls, but he knew the voice behind the disguise.

  “You’re not the doctor we saw earlier,” Jane remarked.

  “No ma’am,” said the man in the white coat as he stepped up to the bed, grabbed the clipboard and began looking through the charts. “I’m a specialist on nerve damage. My colleague asked that I make the time to give your condition a quick appraisal.” He looked up at Jane, smiled. “Miss, would you mind stepping outside so that I may conduct my examination? I promise it shall be brief.”

  Jane absorbed the worrisome prospect of nerve damage and quickly consented. The man in the white coat thanked her, held the door open as she left the room. Then he closed the door, pulled the shade down on its window and turned back to the patient. “I came as soon as I heard, Brian! What happened?”

  Brian grinned and said, “Hello, Byron!” He lost the grin. “I’ll tell you what happened: I was stabbed in the back by a monkey!”

  Byron Twain frowned through his disguise. “A monkey? You’d better tell me everything.”

  Brian wasted no time in relating the adventure thus far. The account was cold and factual, a detailed history, with no wor
ds wasted for the sake of entertainment. As Brian came to the end of his tale, he reached out to the nightstand by his bed, seized a scrap of paper and held it out to his disguised twin. “Jane has threatened to watch over me all night long. You’ll have to pick up the trail and this is the only clue I can offer you.”

  The man in the white coat took the paper and frowned at the name and address at the top of the page. “An empty receipt from the Jade Lotus Laundry?” He turned it over and recognized Montgomery Fisk’s address, written in neat, penciled letters.

  Brian nodded. “I believe the Chinaman dropped it in Fisk’s gardens during our little tussle. It could lead you straight to him…” Then he slumped in his bed. “…or it could be a dead end.”

  Byron stowed the receipt in a pocket of the white coat. “I’ll look into it. In the meanwhile, you heal up.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  The Jade Lotus was deep in Stockport’s Chinatown, a neighborhood cramped onto the brick-and-stone quays across the harbor from the shipping docks where the Gertrude Burrows made port. It was a three-story brownstone with crumbling mortar, boards criss-crossed over the windows and doors, and a painted sign for the laundry which bore chipped letters and fading image of an exotic green flower.

  Byron Twain—now clad in the gray hat, coat, and mask of the Sleuth’s costume—skulked through the deep shadows of dusk seeking an entrance to the disused edifice. At the rear he found a pair of double-doors which covered a basement entrance. Close inspection revealed that although the boards were crossed over both doors, they were only nailed to one. To the casual passer-by, it offered the illusion that this entrance was barred like all the other portals of the building.