And 47 Miles of Rope (Trace 2) by Warren Murphy

didn’t learn anything at Felicia’s, except I met some wonderful people, really the salt of the earth. There were Francis and Frances, the non-talking mules who are into shipping and not into insurance. From now on, I think I’m going to be into not being into anything. Paolo Ferrara abuses Willie, the servant, and I don’t think that’s the only reason I might like to take a slice out of Paolo Ferrara. And then there’s our nosey friend, Baron Hubbaker. His theory sounds right—burglar surprised, burglar cracks head, burglar grabs jewels and runs, Jarvis dies—but I still don’t trust him.
    I trust National Anthem, though. I’d trust that woman with anything. I mean, can a woman who loves animals be all bad?
    Asses Up? It’s one movie I will not miss. I’ve missed every Academy Award-winning film of the last twelve years. I have intentionally missed every Jane Fonda and Shirley MacLaine movie made since they were old enough to open their mouths. I don’t want to encourage them. Add Warren Beatty to the list. I mean, how can you plunk down four dollars to go see the history of Communism written and directed by Shirley MacLaine’s brother, for Christ’s sake?
    Visiting the scene of the crime never does any good. I mean, I saw it all on police photos and I never see anything at the scene that isn’t in the photos. I could stay home, like Mycroft Holmes, and have them mail me reports and pictures and then solve everything just by the overwhelming power of my intellect. Screw this nose-to-the-ground, tail-up-in-the-air kind of search for the truth. That’s for pigs digging up truffles. Give me photos every time.
    So I saw where Jarvis’ body was found and where he hit his head on that ceramic fish, and I saw the holes in the safe. Hold it. None of the holes ever got through into the safe, so how’d the thief get the safe open? Felicia says that she and Jarvis were the only two with the combination. Every time somebody tells you something like that, they’re wrong. Sure, they’re the only two. Except one of them wrote it down on the inside cover of the phone book and the other one painted it in nail polish on the bedroom mirror. I know what people are like. They don’t have any sense.
    Probably somebody from out of town did steal the stuff. Everybody at the place is out of the pool of suspects ’cause they were all in London with Felicia when Jarvis got it. Poor Felicia. She seemed more concerned about her tree getting knocked over than about Jarvis getting knocked off. And her missing ashtray.
    Then we’ve got Spirakos Spirakodopolous, and he makes you realize what a debt we all owe Cassius Clay. What’s that, you say? What debt? Well, he changed his name to Muhammad Ali and now all fighters are named Muhammed to imitate him. Suppose he had changed his name to Spirakodopolous? How would you like to hear Howard Cosell broadcast a fight between Willie Spirakodopolous and Tyrone Spirakodopolous? It’s truly frightening.
    I called the TV station before. The midnight movie that night really was Mildred Pierce . But I’d better remember to check Spiro’s record. Just in case.
    Why, dammit, why was Jarvis wearing gloves? In July. Where is his passport? Felicia doesn’t know and neither do I. I wish National Anthem knew. I’d get it out of her, someway. Why didn’t Jarvis wait at the airport for Spiro? Why’d he park on the road instead of in the driveway?
    So many questions, so few answers. I have been very good all day and I think it’s time to go now to an insurance party and see if I can figure out anything else and watch Chico complain and hear my mother whine and watch my father suffer. What a world. Beam me up, Scotty. This one sucks.
    Even though this is my home town and I’ve got my reputation to protect and therefore I should be expected to spend a little extra on tips and stuff to buy information, I’m just going to stick with my usual hundred-and-fifty-dollars-a-day expenses. Until further