Photography: Foxtongue

Three twisted pieces of metal gleamed on the rich mahogany of the dining room table, the largest about three inches in length and maybe an inch wide, pinched in the middle. The smallest was no longer and no thicker than Arcady’s index finger. He delicately picked up the pieces, turning them over in nervous fingers, as three members of the bomb squad stood around the table. On the other side of the table, Kincaide sat with her arms crossed, waiting.

Zene, for his part, wondered who he could ask for a good stiff drink. The air was tense, and the atmosphere was not helped by Kincaide’s thousand-degree glare at Arcady.

“Unusually thin for an impromptu bomb case,” said Arcady in a stage whisper. Zene snorted.

Arcady continued, “I would have expected it to shatter.” He bent the medium piece carefully. “No. Too soft. Not rigid enough to shatter.”

“An unprofessional job,” said the bomb squad lieutenant.

“Perhaps,” replied Arcady, turning over the largest piece. “Remanents of scratched black paint on one side. And… ah. A bit bent out of shape, but this piece is strangely proportioned.” He placed the piece on the table, and cupped his hands so that, together with the pinched side, they formed a heart. “Candy box, I suspect.”

Zene noted that Arcady’s voice had dropped from an assured air, performing for an audience, to an odd hush. He stirred in his chair with impatience, wanting to ask Arcady why he seemed so uncertain, but at the same time not wanting to give Kincaide and her cronies any advantages. Plus no doubt the situation, already straining at Zene’s nerves, would extend itself with yet more questions and challenges.

Kincaide whispered to a policeman at her right shoulder, who quickly left.

“What a weird sort of box to use,” said another bomb squad member.

Arcady remained silent, staring at the pieces.

“Not unless you’re a passionate woman planning revenge,” said Kincaide.

Arcady looked up. “For goodness’ sakes, tell me you are not actually thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

“Oh, it makes sense now, since we’ve been searching Hestia Adler’s apartment,” replied Kincaide, a smug smile on her face. “Obviously she doesn’t spend much time there, and a bit of dust build-up could be expected. But there was a clear heart-shaped spot on her dresser—about that size. Exact measurements were taken, of course.”

“That makes no sense,” said Arcady. “Why use so incriminating a box?”

“No signs of forced entry,” said Kincaide. “And Stanner’s the best man on the force to determine that.”

“I agree,” said Arcady reluctantly. “A second key, then.”

“Sorry, Arcady, but while she doesn’t hire a maid, her apartment’s in one hell of a nice place. They use keycards there, and the only other copy’s with the management—resting untouched in its slot.”

“But it makes no sense.”

“Yet when you eliminate the impossible, what remains that’s improbable must be the truth.”

“By no means have you eliminated anything impossible, Inspector,” replied Arcady. His voice now betrayed a wavering undertone—anger? Zene wondered. “And the improbable here is most improbable. The fool who examines it no further—”

“There’s also the principle of keeping it simple, stupid,” interrupted Kincaide. “Occam’s razor, I’ve found, works nine times out of ten.” She stood up, her face unexpressive now. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. And so is Ms. Adler.”

Tags: arcady, malady kincaide, zene

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