THE VANISHING CORPSE:
Lieutenant Sylvester’s command cracked through the morning air like a gunshot. “Get in—now!”
Bowich vaulted onto the car’s running board as Sydney threw the vehicle into reverse, then forward, the tires screeching against damp pavement. They rounded a corner, and there it sat.
Stanwood’s luxury sedan idled ominously in the predawn gloom, its interior lights glowing like a sickly yellow beacon.
“He’s inside,” Bowich muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. “Not a sight for weak stomachs.”
Sylvester barely blinked. Corpses were old acquaintances by now. “Anyone else see the body?”
“My two deckhands,” Bowich nodded. “Sent ’em back to guard the boat. Harbor’s crawling with rats tonight.”
Sydney pulled up behind the dead car. Bowich pointed a trembling finger. “Right there under the dash—face tilted up, dagger sticking from his chest like a goddamn flagpole.”
The lieutenant was already moving, his polished shoes slapping against wet asphalt. He yanked at the door handle—
Click.
Locked.
“Told you,” Bowich said. “Checked every door.”
Sylvester whirled, arms spread like a traffic cop. “Back up! This is a fingerprint scene now.” He pressed his nose to the window, then stiffened.
The car was empty.
“Christ alive.”
Bowich lunged forward, breath fogging the glass. “That’s impossible! He was—”
A single bloodstain smeared the rear carpet, black in the dim light. Nobody. No dagger. Just the lingering copper stench of violence.
Sylvester’s voice dropped to a growl. “You swear on your mother’s grave that was Stanwood?”
“Like I’d mistake the man who financed half my expeditions!” Bowich’s knuckles whitened on the doorframe. “Gray face, glassy eyes… and that cursed dagger right here—” He tapped his sternum.
The lieutenant’s smile could have frozen hell. “Then someone’s playing a very dangerous game.” He snapped his fingers toward a patrolman. “Get Forensics. I want this car dusted like a Victorian cabinet.”
One Week Later
The police report read like a bad dime novel:
-
The Car: Only Bowich and Stanwood’s prints. Too clean. Suspiciously clean.
-
The Gun: .38 revolver from Catherine’s pocket, two rounds spent.
-
The Bullet: Lodged in Stanwood’s study wall—a match for Catherine’s weapon.
-
The Blood: Human. Type AB. Stanwood’s.
Then came the garbage dump discovery.
Kids playing near the wharf spotted a shoe. Then a leg. Then what remained of Harrison Stanwood—shoulder bullet wound (same .38), but the killing blow? A dagger through the heart.
Sydney read the headlines over black coffee, nodding as if watching a play whose ending he’d guessed in Act One. The phone rang.
“She’s talking,” Sylvester snarled without greeting. “How the hell did you know?”
“Elementary,” Sydney exhaled smoke. “No woman stays silent that long unless she’s protecting someone. Now—who’s the lucky man?”
The lieutenant’s silence spoke volumes.
TO BE CONTINUED…
(Adapted from Earl Stanley Gardner’s “The Mystery of the Missing Body”)