Watson spoke up again. “And just how are wesupposed to contact Parton? We don‘t even know where he lives.”
“In my day,” Holmes said, “we would havecontacted him via the personal advertisements in the newspapers.One would write a notice such as, ‘If the owner of the ambernecklace wishes to see it returned, will he please respond to Mr.Jones,’ or some such name.”
“And did that work?”
“Most assuredly. Everyone read the Personalcolumns and we received two newspaper deliveries every day.”
“Two newspaper deliveries a day?” I repeated.“In the first place, hardly anyone reads newspapers these days,much less has one delivered even once a day.”
Holmes sighed. “I fear you modern people haveabandoned a very sure method of communication.”
Watson’s voice contained a little sarcasm.“We don’t need newspapers anymore. Most people rely on televisionnews programs to tell them what’s going on, and the Internet cansatisfy their needs instantly twenty-four hours a day.”
Holmes rose and paced the floor. Except forhis footsteps, the room remained silent for a few minutes. “Verywell, how do you communicate with someone in these times? Do youuse that telephone camera device?”
“Yes, of course.” I smiled even though mymouth still hurt. “We may not know where the man lives, but we havehis telephone number. We can call him.”
“And if he is not at home to receive yourtelephone call?”
“We’ll leave a message. Most people havetelephone answering machines that will record a message and thenplay it back when the owner turns it on later.”
Holmes swirled around and gave me a smile.“Then that is what we must do.” He returned to his seat, crossedhis arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles, and grinned, asif the ball were now in our court and we must act at once.
I sighed. “I think you’re right, but even ifhe has an answering machine, there’s no guarantee he’ll have it on,or that he’ll listen to his messages any time soon.”
“It’s still worth a try,” Doc said. “I’llleave the message, tell him we’ve got this, er, thing belonging tothe dead woman, and if he wants it he must come here to pick itup.”
Holmes smiled again. “Excellent.” He tiltedhis head toward the ceiling. “All will be well if he heeds themessage.” Then a frown replaced his smile. “I do wish we knew hisaddress. The post would be much more efficient.”
“Efficient? You mean snail mail?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Snail mail is what we call letters deliveredby what you call the post, because it is as slow as a snail. Aletter might take days...”
“Or weeks,” Watson added.
“Surely not. Letters are delivered in Englandthree times a day.”
“Perhaps they used to be a hundred yearsago,” I said, “but probably not anymore. Here in the U.S. we onlyget mail once a day. And soon they may be only on weekdays. Ourpostal service is considering discontinuing Saturdaydeliveries.”
Holmes rose from his chair. “What are yousaying? According to that machine you installed in my room, youAmericans landed a man on the moon, but you cannot deliver mail onSaturdays?” He stomped across the floor. “And that was forty yearsago. What have you done lately if not improve the mailservice?”
When I repeated that to Watson, he laughedout loud. Then he stared at the place he apparently assumed Holmesmight be standing. “We don’t need snail mail anymore. We havetelephones, e-mails and Skype.”
“Stop,” I told him. “Holmes has a remarkablebrain, but let’s not overload it all at once.” To Holmes I said, “Ithink it would be wise if you took your journey into the pasthundred years a little slower.”
He made a scoffing sound and headed for hisroom. “If you succeed in having Mr. Parton at your door withintwenty-four hours, I shall withdraw my remark.”
Doc and I groaned almost in unison.
Chapter 9
Watson made the telephone call from his owncell phone, because we decided a man’s authoritative voice would bebest. Especially since the two had fought over the gun. And yes, wedelivered the message by way of an answering machine.
The next day Doc took care of his clients, Iwent to my job at the bakery as usual, and Holmes took turnswatching a documentary on his television set and scratching away onthe violin. Tessa did not appear all day, although like Watson, shedid just before eight in the evening in case Parton received themessage and decided to obey the summons. She carried a smallnotebook and pen in her hand, as if planning to take downeverything she heard and use it in one of her novels.
By a quarter to eight, we all assembled in mysitting room like a gathering of murder suspects, reminding me ofold
Nero Wolfe mysteries I devoured as achild.
Holmes looked directly at me. “Before the manarrives and reveals the facts, if he does indeed show up and tellthem to us, I think an explanation is in order.”
“What explanation?”
“The solution to the puzzle. Do you notremember our wager? You were to solve the case and prove you are atrue detective.” He smirked.
The solution? I cleared my throat. “Verywell. Here is my opinion of how the man died and who’s toblame.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair and crossedone ankle over his knee.
“In the first place,” I began, “the newspaperheadline read, ‘Man shot to death in vacant apartment.’ Since thecrime scene was nearby, Tessa and I went over to investigate.”
“Yes, yes,” Holmes said. “We know all that.Go on.”
“After this investigation, I came to theconclusion the dead man, Andrews, died from a fall in which hestruck his head on the marble fender in front of the fireplace,causing his neck to be broken.” I paused.
Watson asked the next question. “Why did hefall?”
“I believe he and a second man in the room,probably Parton, held a lengthy argument. I think the second manhad a gun and threatened Andrews with it. Perhaps the argumentdeteriorated into a fight and that resulted in two things, the gunbeing discharged and Andrews falling even though he hadn’t beenshot.”
“Go on,” Holmes said. “Why did the two menfight?”
“Well...” I rose and paced the floor whilethinking. “It would appear that they fought over a woman. Thepicture and newspaper clipping I saw in the backpack we found wereof a woman named Adele Parton
