The Case of the French China: Chapter 2

This is Part 2 of my mystery series, "Michael Prescott and the Case of the French China". Read Part 1 here.

Chapter 2

After Michael Prescott left the museum, it was 23 minutes to one. Considering the fact that he had barely eaten anything for breakfast, he hailed a taxi and went to the Birdland Jazz Club on W 44th Street. Plus, he needed a good drink, preferably a beer. When he got there, the lunch hour was in full swing, and a Bebop band was playing on stage. After Prescott took a seat at the bar, he ordered a basket of wings and a beer, then turned his attention to the band on the stage. They were playing a song by Charles Parker, and he thought he recognized the pianist. “Michael Prescott. I thought I saw you come in here.” A voice with a deep southern accent called out, causing Michael to groan. 

“Hey, Dorothy. How are you doing?” Michael asked with a grimace. 

“You have some nerve coming back here.” Dorothy answered, “Especially after last time.” 

“I had hoped you’d forgotten about that,” he replied sheepishly. 

“How could I forget about it?” she exclaimed, “You left me for your oh-so-important job!” 

“Why don’t we talk about this over a nice plate of wings?” he asked weakly, “They're on me.” 

“Fine.” she grumped, “But you owe me one.” 

After Dorothy sat down, Michael explained why he was there. 

“The famous French china set was taken, so the police and the owner, Alejandro Baraclough, hired me to track it down and take it back. I came here for lunch, and maybe some clues,” he informed her. 

“Well, if you’re looking for clues, I might be able to help you,” Dorothy informed him. 

“Great! What clues do you have?” Prescott asked. 

 “A man with a European accent came in here, asking about a set of china.” Dorothy recounted. 

“What accent was it?” Michael inquired. 

“Italian, I think? Or maybe Swiss? Or Austrian? Or Hungarian?” Dorothy thought back. 

As he wrote the clues down he asked, “How long ago was it?” 

“Two days ago. He said that he was visiting the city and had heard of a famous china set that was on display somewhere, and wanted to know where it was.” Dorothy answered him. 

“Mystery Stranger. Asking about a china set. Two days ago. European accent.” Prescott repeated the clues. When Dorothy nodded, he asked, “Anything else?” 

When she shook her head, he stood up, gave the bartender a tip, and thanked Dorothy for her time. “Call me if anything else comes up,” he told her as he left. 

 

Once Michael Prescott left the jazz club, he took a cigarette out, put it in his mouth, then pulled out his lighter and lit the cigarette. After considering the facts, he decided to head back to his place on 6th Ave to mull over the clues, along with having a couple of shots of bourbon. The beer just wasn’t enough, and he needed something to help him think. As he hailed a taxi, he considered the fact that the theft occurred 2 days after the mysterious stranger showed up asking questions about a china set. Most people don’t ask questions about that stuff very often. As he got into the taxi, he decided to call Commissioner Thompson on when the crime occurred. Maybe then I’ll get somewhere with this damn case, he thought, because the clues I have are getting me nowhere, dammit. Once the taxi reached its destination, Michael got off and hurried inside to get to his office. 

 

Once Michael Prescott reached his office, he pulled out his key to the lock on the doorknob, unlocked his office, hurried inside, pulled out his Rolodex with names and phone numbers on it, took the receiver of his rotary phone, and dialed the phone number for Commissioner Jack Thompson, New York Police Department. The Commissioner picked up on the second ring. “Commissioner Thompson, what time did the theft occur?” Michael Prescott inquired of the commissioner. 

“At exactly 12:30 AM.” the commissioner responded, “The thief’s bullets hit a clock and stopped it.” 

That makes sense, Prescott thought, but it also seems careless. If the thief was after the set of china, he wouldn’t shoot the clock. That only makes it easier for the thief to be found. 

“Were the shots aimed at the clock?” Prescott asked. 

“Yes. It was a direct and intentional shot.” Thompson replied. 

“Shooting at the clock? Why?” Prescott asked skeptically. 

“We don’t know. Frankly, we’re confused on that part.” Thompson replied. 

“Hmm.” Prescott replied, “Thanks for your information. I’ll call again if I have any leads.” 

As he hung up the phone, Michael went to lean back in his chair to think, but first, he poured himself 2 shots of bourbon and stamped out his cigarette, which had already burned down to a stub. He then leaned back in his chair but was struck by a sudden realization as he did. He leaped up, ran over to his bulletin board, cleared it off (the case was cold anyways), and got to work. First, he tacked up a photograph of Commissioner Thompson labeled it Police, a photo of himself, labeled it Investigator, and a photo of the owner of the stolen French china, Alejandro Baraclough, and labeled that one Victim. He then put a photo of the French China that he tore out of an old newspaper (he never threw them out, as they might come in handy, he had reasoned to the landlord) in the center of the board, and labeled that one Item in Question. After this, he put up a scrap of paper labeled Mystery Suspect, and a photo of Dorothy labeled Informant. He then took a ball of yarn and tied it to the photo of the French china. He took the yarn and tied it to the photo of Alejandro Baraclough, did the same to Commissioner Thompson’s photo, but then took the yarn and strung a line to Thompson from Baraclough, and then he took the yarn and continued it to the photo of himself. He then took a string from his photo to Dorothy’s photo, a piece of yarn from Dorothy’s photo to a scrap of paper labeled Mystery Suspect, and then he stepped back to understand it all. Baraclough owns china, china goes missing, and Baraclough call’s the Commissioner, Commissioner calls me. I meet Baraclough, then go meet Dorothy. Dorothy tells me about a man with a European accent, and Baraclough has a European accent, Prescott thought to himself, Could Baraclough be related to this mystery person? Prescott then checked his watch for the time. It was 4:38 PM, October 22nd. Exactly 16 hours and 7 minutes had elapsed since the French china set went missing.  

 

By the time Michael Prescott went to bed, it was 10:25 PM, and he had drunk 5 shots of bourbon, smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, and gotten nowhere in his case. But even when he did go to bed, he still couldn’t sleep. His mind kept going back to Mr. Baraclough and the mystery suspect’s connection through the accent. part of him wanted to shove it aside as a mere coincidence, but the detective side of him knew not to push aside anything. He then made up his mind to call Commissioner Thompson to get Mr. Baraclough’s number and address first thing that morning. As he began to fall asleep, he heard a loud noise coming from outside his office. Prescott leaped out of bed, threw on his night robe, lit the candle by his bedside (he never knew when he would need it), and went to open the front door. As he opened it, he heard a door slam down the hall, then feet running down the flight of stairs, and then, the sound of someone firing a gun disturbingly close behind him. Prescott ducked back inside his place, grabbed his Colt .44 pistol that in its holster that was hanging on the coat rank right by the door, made sure that it was fully loaded, cocked it, and stepped out and took aim from behind his door, which had several new holes in, and opened fire, pulling the trigger twice at an object that was glinting in the moonlight. He then flipped on a nearby light switch to see what he shot. It was an urn, and the remains of it lay shattered on the floor, with bullet holes marking where it had once stood.