The Time Machine Did It by John Swartzwelder

mull over my financial situation. This, I could see, was
going to be a problem. All my money was either paper that couldn’t be redeemed
in lawful money, or “silver” that wasn’t made of silver. The only money in my
pocket that was worth what it said it was, that had any intrinsic value, was a
nickel and eight pennies. At least they were made of the metal they claimed to
be. But 13 cents won’t buy much, not even in 1941. And the coins I had were all
minted in the 1980’s and 90’s anyway. I might be able to con a blind man out of
something with them, but I could probably do that with a handful of gravel.
    That 13 cents was probably going
to have to last me a long time, unfortunately. No matter how I doped out the
situation it looked like I was going to have to get back to 2003 the hard way,
by living the whole 62 years. Which meant I’d be about 100 years old when I got
back to my detective business. I might not be so burly by then. Might have to
change my name. Frank Rickety, or Frank Coughy, or something. I’d still be
frank with my clients though, so my first name wouldn’t have to change.
    Thinking about this gave me the
answer. I could make money here the same way I had been making it in 2003. They
had plenty of crime in 1941, if motion pictures were accurate sources of
information. I’d just set myself up as a detective here, and wait for the
space/time continuum to make a mistake and give me an opportunity to get back
home.
    I looked at my watch. It was too
late to start being a detective today. The sun was going down and people were
heading for home. They wouldn’t need any detectives until tomorrow morning at 5
a.m. at the earliest. So what was I going to do for food and shelter tonight? I
saw a drunk across the street weaving into a particularly rundown and
inexpensive looking hotel called The Colossal-Majestic.
    The roof of The Colossal-Majestic
was sagging and a lot of the windows were out, and while I was looking at it an
entire layer of paint peeled off and a bed slid out of a window and landed in
the alley. A sign out front of the hotel said “Rooms With Heat: $2 a night.
Rooms Without Heat: $1. Rooms Without Anything: Ten Cents a night.” Another
sign said “We Don’t Examine Money Very Closely”. This was the hotel for me.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    I woke up the next
morning cold and cramped. The room, as advertised, was a miracle of understatement.
No heat, no lights, no blankets, no bed, just me. I washed my face in some snow
that had drifted in through the window, and dried it on a handy rodent. Then,
refreshed, disheveled, smelly, and hopeful, I headed out to make my mark in
prewar America.
    I found a likely looking street
corner, one with lots of foot traffic and no competing detectives, and began
accosting passersby, asking them if they had any crimes that needed solving
today.
    “Detective?” I yelled. “Crime
solved, mister? Trace something for you, ma’am? Who else wants a detective?”
    Business was bad at first.
Everyone was evidently satisfied with their current detective. But I finally
attracted the attention of a man who, as luck would have it, was actually on
his way downtown to hire a detective. This chance meeting would save him some
shoe leather, he informed me, rubbing his hands. He asked me if I came highly
recommended and I said I sure as hell did. That was all he needed to know, and
he started explaining his problem to me.
    Unfortunately, the lunch hour was
just starting and the foot traffic on my street corner suddenly increased.
Pedestrians kept pushing their way between us, and a street vendor rolled up
and set up shop next to us, yelling out the good news that he had peanuts for sale.
    My prospective client asked me:
“Do you have someplace else we could talk? Someplace quieter? Like an office?”
    I told him yes, I did have an
office, but we couldn’t use it right now. He asked me why not and we stared at
each other until both of us started to go to sleep. Finally