The Shattered GarageHere is an account of a most peculiar mystery, one solved of course by the famous Bruce Holmes. My story starts in his home, 221B Titate Street.
We were both pondering, letting our minds wander to distant places, when a man burst through Holmes' front door, breaking the silence.
"I'm truly sorry for my intrusion," uttered the man, breathing heavily, who I now recognized as the gunsmith, Albert Brots. A robust man, usually displayed with confidence, now seemed stricken with fear.
"Bruce Holmes, please, I fear for my life. I need your help."
"Sit down," said Bruce, with a composed look on his face, putting down a newspaper he was reading, "and tell me of your troubles."
"As you probably know, I'm Albert Brots. I make guns, but what I do specially is make them myself, in my own garage. I was on an errand for quite some hours and on my way inside of my house, I realized I had forgotten to bring in my mail. So, I turned around and walked about five steps when I was blown to the ground. My workshop had blown up!"
I could see the distress on his face, and I truly felt sorry for this man, having his life's ambition blown to pieces in an instant.
"Please, sir, I need to know who did this! I don't want to die!"
"Yes. Let's begin immediately. Take me to your home," said Bruce as he led Albert and me through the door. I took one look back into the small room, excited to leave my article about European political affairs and was sure Bruce felt the same way about leaving his article, "Man Falls Dead in City Street."
Our party clambered out the door and down the noisy stairs that clanged loudly at every soft step, and out to the gunsmith's carriage.
"I have a competitor, Ralph Hubble, another smith that makes weapons very close to mine. I think he is the one who tried to shut down my business," Brots explained to us on the way there. I have heard of company rivals, but it is truly dreadful what some people will do.
After about 20 minutes of mostly silence, with the occasional puff from Holmes' pipe, or the paranoid glance of Mr. Brots, we arrived at the home. The garage had been a separate building from the house, and it was mostly demolished while the mansion was fine.
"Well then," said Holmes, "Let's take a look at that garage."
Brots took us in the front gate and led us to the remains of his workshop.
"There doesn't seem to be an exact point of origin," I chirped in, proud to be able to recognize something. "It looks like the whole thing just fell apart. What do you think, Bruce?"
"I'm not sure, I'm really not sure." It was unlike him to seem unsure of himself, but I decided not to say anything.
"I might be able to think better after we have a bite to eat. Would you like us to go back and come after we are filled?" said Holmes.
"Nonsense, I have a cook that would be more than happy to serve company. Come along then," replied Brots.
As we went inside his house, I noticed just how lavish it was. There was a grand piano, a brand new telephone, silver and gold everywhere, and as we passed a room, I saw it had a privy inside! Brots told us to make ourselves comfortable and went into a nearby room, which I presumed must have been the kitchen. He soon came out and said, "It will be a while until the tea and crumpets are ready, so tell me of some of the mysteries you've solved. It really fascinates me."
So we talked for a while about our past mysteries and Bruce brought up the article that he was reading that had puzzled him. They found a man dead in the street from cyanide poisoning, but there was no way he could walk out there with so much cyanide in him.
"All they could find on the body was a small hole in his foot, not deep enough for a knife or a conventional bullet. Would you know anything about that since you are a professional in that type of field?" asked Bruce.
"Mystery bullets? I've never dabbled with that type of thing."
"Bother. I wasn't expecting to do any research into the matter," Holmes said in an off-hand way. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom? I saw it on the way in here," he added.
"Go ahead, I trust you know how to work it?"
"I hope I could figure it out."
So Holmes left Brots and me to talk for a little while, he still fascinated with all of our 'adventures'. He talked freely and was a pleasant conversationalist, unafraid since he was with us, but as Bruce came back, I could tell his attitude had changed. He still wore a smile, and laughed hardly when it was appropriate, but he chose his words carefully, and when the food and drink finally came, he rarely talked at all.
"So, Holmes, I trust you know why I've brought you here?" said Brots abruptly.
"Of course," replied Holmes, but refused to say more. At this time I was utterly confused.
"Well, then. Enlighten your friend here."
"I presume you are going to kill us now," he said in a calm voice, taking a sip of tea. By now, I was terrified and felt the temperature spike in the room.
"Good, but for my own curiosity, tell me how you know."
"Well now, I came to your explosive workshop. It could not have been a normal explosion as my friend here has pointed out. There were the huge vats of hydrochloric acid and bits of magnesium around your shop, but it would take a huge amount of magnesium to make enough hydrogen to blow up that shop, so I truly was a little confused at the time...."
"But your little line about not knowing was just that, a line," interrupted Brots.
"Of course." I had no idea what was happening, but I knew Mr. Brots was not as smug as he wanted to be.
"Now enters the killing on the street." I had no idea what this had to do with Albert Brots, but I dared not say anything. "It was obviously a mystery bullet that shot him, probably made of ground beef?"
"Why, yes it was. Leaves no metal shards, shallow hole, and undetectable from the tissue around it." So Brots had killed the man in the street! But why, how? Why did he ask the most brilliant deductive mind to find him out?
"So," started Holmes, "After putting all of this evidence together, I can figure out how you did the crime. Using your vast bank account, you secured a tiny amount of potassium cyanide, which you unwittingly put in one single meat bullet you made yourself in your shop. To fire this bullet, you also made a silenced gun purely of magnesium, which you knew would dissolve in hydrochloric acid.
"But who would you shoot at? Your rival gun maker of course. But although you make guns, you obviously don't fire them much, because you missed, killing an innocent man. Afraid, you fled home, dumped the gun into the acid, thinking you were home free. But you don't know as much chemistry as you should, because you unwittingly lit a cigarette, cigar, or something, causing the shop to blow up in the manner it did. By some fluke, you were not harmed, your clothes not even singed. You then got a brilliant idea. You could still blame this on your competitor, and get the same effect you wanted. You tried to use me in your plot, but somewhere realized you were messing with powers beyond your control, probably when I brought our subject of discussion to your kill right?"
"Right, so I knew I must get rid of you, as I now will do!"
"Not so fast." I whirled around to see the chief of police and plenty of officers, all pointing their guns at Albert Brots. A surge of confused relief flooded over me.
"You're under arrest. Come with us."
As the police pushed and pulled the bewildered murderer out of his home, Holmes and I were left alone.
"How did they know to come?" I blurted out.
"Well, I'm sure you noticed the telephone in the entry? That is where I went instead of the bathroom. The chief was able to secure a warrant off of the evidence I gave him.
"Oh," I murmured, letting my heart slow down after my near-death experience. "One thing still bothers me. With all the evidence, it still wasn't a sure shot to figure out that Brots did a murder."
"Remember the steps outside my room? How loud they are? When our culprit first came in, he was panting, but I heard none of the noise that should have accompanied his running. I had a suspicion of him the whole time. Also if I hadn't been reading the report of the deceased, I would never know what to suspect him for."
"So luck had a lot to do with this case?" I asked him.
"Yes, my boy. Dumb luck has saved both our lives." With that, Holmes took a last crumpet and started for the door.
"Are you coming?" he asked without turning around.
"Yes, sir," I replied, following him.