seymoure

Please, Mr. Postman

“Hollywood's the kind of town

where they stick a knife in your back

and then have you arrested

for carrying a concealed weapon.”

-Philip Marlowe (Raymond Chandler)

I don’t know how long I sat there feeling another taste of the defeat that I had come to expect from my days.

I was roused by the mail dropping through the slot. I pushed myself to get up and get it.

I knew that the mail was one of three categories.

First were pleas for money (both real and fabricated) and the resultant business situations that they generated. Most of these were people who wanted to start businesses so they could pull themselves up out of poverty. These went to Business Partners, Inc. The company had been created to check out these prospects, and if they were viable, give them the boost they needed. If not, we had a team of people who might help them draw up alternate plans that could fit the needs of the petitioners and their communities. If they were scams, we had a team to deal harshly with them.

The second type of correspondence I got was the run of the mill “junk mail” that everybody got. I hadn’t ever run away from this kind of stuff for a simple reason: when I was starting out, as both a detective and a writer, a great deal of my business came to me through the mail. If you do the same, you know that you spend a lot of time wondering if the mail has come yet. Letting the junk find you will at least let you know that the postman has been and gone.

The final and the smallest portion of my mail was personal. This had, of late, dwindled to be little more than a memory. I had never been gregarious, so I didn’t have a lot of friends. So now I could hope for a note from Hugo or Rayleen or one of the guys who I met on a case, but that was about it.

This morning was different. There was, at the bottom of the voluminous pile, a personal letter.

From Eddie.

It had been mailed six days ago.

I rushed back to my chair and sat. I tore open the missive, noting that it was thick with paper.

It began:

“Dear Matt, forgive me for not having written you sooner. If this sounds fishy, don’t think I’m writing just for the halibut. (I know, not worthy of me, but I’ve been a bit off my game.)

“I have something serious that I need to tell you.

“I didn’t know who else to trust with this. My e-mail is not safe, neither is the telephone. In this technological world it seems snail mail is a safer way to pass along secrets. And this is a big one.

“Matt, my friend, I fear my life is in danger. I have uncovered a plot of incredible magnitude. The people who are at the root of it will stop at nothing to see it through, including murder. I know they have already killed at least 5 people, maybe more. I have included some of the information that is in the public record, but there is more that I don’t feel safe passing on any way but in person.

“Could you come out visit me? This is not the kind of thing I do, but it would be right down your alley.

“This is not a joke. If you have ever believed anything I have said to you, this is the time. Five people are dead already, and that doesn’t cover those I know nothing of, and that could be many more. What I am sure of is that they are killing people to set up an incredibly bigger kill.

“They have the police and the news media in their pockets. They have as much money, or more, than you do, to finance this thing.

“I know this sounds crazy. If someone brought the whole thing to me that’s what my first thought would be. But this is real, I swear. We’re not talking about a few, not even a dozen more. Perhaps thousands of lives are at stake. Evidence tell me that time is short. Please, Hurry.”

And it was just signed “Eddie.”

The postmark was “Phoenix, Arizona,” and I remembered that that was the location where they were filming when the “accident” happened. Now I had to rethink what I was reading in the news.

I got on the phone to make sure my plane was ready. I could read everything else on the flight.

Then I opened my gun safe and took out the two .45’s and their holsters. I have shot people, but never cavalierly. It has been at least a decade since I have even carried these firearms, but there was a chance that they might be useful. I would always rather have my own weapons rather than depend on unfamiliar guns.

I started packing the few things I would carry with me; anything else I would need could be purchased at destination. This was one of the great advantages of being rich.

I suddenly realized that I had gone from being a Sam Spade to become a “gentleman sleuth” who does it as a lark.

Then I thought of Eddie.

No this case was as all my cases were. It was an obligation.

Back to the Beginning

Continue on to Chapter 4