Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018

“Put Katz on the phone.”

I felt my processing cycles flutter, which I’d experienced one other time and knew was a sensation akin to shuddering. It wasn’t hard to understand why I felt it again given that the voice I’d just heard belonged to Desmond Grushnier, someone Julius once called the most dangerous man alive. I told Julius that Grushnier wished to speak to him.

Julius, at that moment, was leaning back in his office chair reading an article in the current Wine Spectator about underrated Bordeaux vintages. A slight flicker showed in his eyes, otherwise nothing for the next 2.8 seconds.

“Archie, if this is some sort of crude joke—” he began.

“No joke. The devil’s on the line and you’ve been keeping him waiting. What do you want me to do?”

From the way Julius’s eyes slitted, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure he believed me, but he straightened up in his chair, lifted his cell phone, and commanded me to patch Grushnier through.

“Yes,” he said gruffly.

“Katz, you’re meddling where you shouldn’t be.”

“Where exactly is that?”

“You know damn well!”

“Interesting,” Julius said. “At the moment I’m reading about several Bordeaux blends that I’m considering purchasing. Later today I plan to be sampling cognacs at the Belvedere Club. I don’t see how either of those activities could possibly be of interest to you.”

Housed within my one-inch by two-inch titanium shell, which Julius wears as a tiepin, are audio and visual circuitry that allow me to “see” and “hear.” I also have a highly sophisticated neuron network that’s twenty years more advanced than anything thought possible, and that allows me to “think.” What I’m lacking are circuitry to simulate olfactory senses and feel environmental conditions, so the concepts of smell, as well as heat, cold, and humidity, are foreign to me, even if in the past I’ve imagined my processor generating excess heat while experiencing something that could best be described as anger. Still, during the 5.2 seconds we waited for Grushnier to respond, I could’ve sworn the temperature in Julius’s office dropped ten degrees, even though I have no idea what that would actually be like.

“Play these games at your own peril,” Grushnier warned, his voice icy enough to cause another shuddering sensation. “I could’ve let you blow up with your townhouse. Next time I just might.”

The line went dead.

The incident Grushnier referred to did indeed happen. A bomb had been planted in a crate of wine that was brought into Julius’s wine cellar, and Grushnier called Julius twenty-three seconds before the bomb was set to explode. While the call didn’t allow Julius time to rescue family photos or other heirlooms, nor his prized bottles of 1971 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti La Tache, it did allow him to escape with his life. The townhouse has since been rebuilt and Julius’s wine cellar restocked.

Julius put the phone down, took a sip of coffee, and asked if I knew how he was meddling.

“I couldn’t say.”

“Archie, what would be your best guess?”

If I had shoulders, I would’ve shrugged them, but since I didn’t I could only imagine myself doing so. “It might be a case I took,” I said.

If my answer surprised Julius, I couldn’t tell. He had an inscrutable poker face when he wanted to, and at that moment he showed nothing in his expression.

“I see. So you took on an investigation without informing me.”

“I’ve taken on seven, to be precise. Mostly cut-and-dry jobs that I could handle through hacking phone records and bank accounts. Three of the jobs were background checks, another was a wife hiring me to find assets that her husband had been hiding in preparation for a divorce. That type of thing.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Three weeks. I put out a virtual For Hire shingle after I warned you that your bank account was reaching an anemic level with barely the funds to last another month. I know you prefer reading wine magazines and puttering around your office to putting your brain to work, and I know you expect to use this Saturday’s big poker game to fatten up your savings, but that doesn’t always happen. In fact, I remember several times you were left in the red.”

“That’s not true, Archie, at least regarding my financial situation. I have investments I can draw on.”

Again, if I had actual eyes, I would’ve rolled them, but I could only imagine doing so. He was talking about his wine collection, which I had catalogued, since one of my many jobs for Julius is acting as his personal secretary. While it did have an impressive value, wine was also about as illiquid an investment as you could have, which was ironic given that it’s all liquid. The value was based on the price it could fetch at auction, which was further dependent on who participated and a number of other factors that were impossible to predict. If word got out that Julius was hard up for cash, that by itself could drive the price down by fifty percent or more. We both also knew that it would pain him to dispose of any of his wine, other than by drinking it, of course.

“I know you’re supremely confident about your poker abilities, as well you should be,” I said. “But what if Saturday, God forbid, you were dealt four kings against an opponent’s four aces? But now, if that were to happen, thanks to the money I’ve been making — six grand so far, and no need to thank me — you’ll still be able to dine with Lily at Le Che Cru, instead of having to take her to The Happy Pig Whistle.”

“The Happy Pig Whistle?”

“A dive I found on lower Washington Street. They’ve been known to add a fly or two to their stews for protein, but their prices are cheap, at least compared to the restaurants you typically frequent.”

Julius’s eyes glazed as he leaned further back in his chair. “Your industriousness aside, I’d like you to cease your investigative operations immediately.”

“Boss, that would be letting Grushnier push us around.”