Alistair Smythe and the Hawk’s Retribution

Alistair Smythe

and the

Hawk’s Retribution

By Chuck Semenuk

            Sir Alistair Smythe turned up his collar and pulled his bowler hat down low over his eyes in an attempt to keep out the cold London rain.  As he approached the bank, he didn’t notice a rather portly man coming off the steps.  They collided, knocking Smythe’s hat askew.

            “What?  Oh, excuse me sir,” said Smythe, straightening his hat.

            “Certainly, my good man.  As I live and breathe!  It’s Alistair Smythe.”

            “Good heavens! Lord Fairwood!  Have you been visiting your money at the bank?” Smythe said with a chuckle.

            “Of course, old chum.  I don’t want to forget what it looks like,” Fairwood smiled.  Lord Fairwood was filthy rich you might say, but he didn’t put on airs.  He didn’t mind people joking about his wealth and was well known for helping the less fortunate citizens of the old town.

            “What do you say we step into the café next door for a spot of tea?” asked Smythe.

            “Jolly good idea,” said Fairwood looking at his pocket watch.  “My chauffer won’t be by for a short while.”

            The two men entered the café and found a table near the front window.  A waitress quickly brought a pot of tea and two cups.

            Smythe sipped his tea.  “Ah.  Nothing like a good cup of tea to chase the chill, I always say.”

            “I agree, old friend,” said Fairwood.  “I say, Smythe.  Are you still keeping company with that young lady?  I’m afraid that I’ve forgotten her name.”

            “You mean Miss Fienbody.  Amelia Fienbody.  Yes, I don’t know what I would do without her.”

            “I take it that you haven’t married.  I thought you would probably have married her by now.”

            “Heavens no, old chap.  Our relationship is strictly platonic.  No sense in mucking up a wonderful friendship by getting married, I always say!” said Smythe with a grin.

            “Someday you’ll have to settle down with a good woman.  You’re not getting any younger you know,” Fairwood laughed.

            “Perhaps one day,” smiled Smythe.

The Golden Cockroach

 

By Chuck Semenuk

The harried secretary rolled her eyes and shook her head as the telephone began ringing again.  It had been ringing off the hook all morning.  She debated answering.

“It’s probably another bill collector.  What can I do?  I haven’t been paid for the last three weeks myself.”

She took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

“Krasche and Burne Investigations.  How may I help you?”

The female voice on the other end was sobbing.

“I need help.  May I speak with one of the detectives please?”

“Neither Mr. Krasche nor Mr. Burne are here right now.  They’re both out working on a case,” she lied.  “I do expect them to be in the office within the next hour or so if you’d like to come in.”

The woman sniffled.  “Alright.  Is your address the same as listed in the phone book?”

The secretary answered, “Yes, it is.”   She was really thinking, “If the landlord doesn’t toss us out on the street.”

“I’ll be there in about an hour.”

########

Betsy Jordan had been with the agency since it started a couple of years ago.  The business was not doing badly in the beginning but the last few months had not been good.  With the stock market crash a bad memory, the economy was still not recovering as quickly as the politicians wanted everyone to believe.  The big war was over and large numbers of service men were coming home; there weren’t enough jobs to go around.  Manufacturers had to retool again, from military hardware to domestic goods but people didn’t yet have the money to buy them.  The crime rate had climbed since the crash but private investigators weren’t getting any of that work.  Why pay someone when the police did the work for free?

Jonathan “Jonnie” Krasche couldn’t find work when he returned from the service so he decided to try starting a business on his own.  He saw plenty of action overseas but managed to return home unscathed except for a bad case of athlete’s foot, which was an occupational hazard when in the infantry.  Jonnie was basically a decent Joe but could best be described as a player and a wise-ass.  He always had an eye out for a pretty face and a nice shape which got him in trouble more often than not.  By chance, he ran into his old high school buddy Will when he got home from the service.

Wilbur “Will” Burne hadn’t been as lucky as Jonnie.  Will had taken a couple of bullets in the leg during the landing at Normandy.  After a period of time in an Army hospital, he was sent home with a Purple Heart and a permanent limp.  Work was hard enough to find, let alone for a guy with a bum leg.

With an uncanny knack for problem solving, the two men readily jumped into the idea of an agency offering investigative services.

Betsy did her best to hold everything together.  Girl Friday, big sister, accountant, whatever it took to keep things on an even keel.  Jonnie and Will were like brothers.  Her own brother never came home from the war; he was on the Arizona at Pearl Harbor.