THE GIRL’S GAMBIT:
The interrogation room smelled of stale coffee and gun oil. Sydney leaned back in the rickety chair, the bitter smile still playing on her lips from Sylvester’s phone call. Across the scarred table, Captain Mahoney—compact, razor-sharp—blew a smoke ring from his cigar.
“This girl,” Mahoney began, voice like gravel under a boot, “plays chess while we’re playing checkers.”
Sydney crossed her legs, the leather of her boots creaking.
Mahoney tapped ash into a tray. “Silent for a week. Then? Body turns up, bullet matches her gun, and suddenly she’s singing like a canary with a damn lawyer conducting the choir.”
The story unfolded like a bad alibi:
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A party. Too much drinking.
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Returning to find Stanwood’s study ransacked.
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The revolver in her drawer—warm, two rounds missing.
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The cursed diamond was winking from her jewelry box.
“Claims she panicked,” Mahoney continued. “Tried to dump the evidence at sea. Thought she was being framed.” His cigar glowed. “Problem is, the jury’ll see a spoiled niece with motive, means, and a bullet in her uncle’s shoulder.”
Sylvester scoffed. “Public’s baying for blood. But if we’re wrong…”
Mahoney’s gaze pinned Sydney. “You’ve got that look. Like you’ve seen the last card in the deck.”
Sydney lit a cigarette, the match flare painting shadows on her face. She exhaled slowly.
“She’s innocent.”
Sylvester’s chair screeched. “The hell she is!”
“The coat,” Sydney murmured, watching smoke curl toward the ceiling. “Stanwood’s body—cut on the right side?”
A beat.
“Yes,” Sylvester admitted grudgingly.
Mahoney leaned forward. “So?”
Sydney stubbed out her cigarette, the ember dying with a hiss.
“So why,” she said softly, “would a right-handed shooter put a dagger through his own heart from the left?”
The silence was thicker than Mahoney’s cigar smoke.
TO BE CONTINUED…
(Adapted from Earl Stanley Gardner’s “The Mystery of the Missing Body”)