The Adventure of the Twelve Toucans by Charles Green

Only the precocious Bernie Halper of Greenwich Village, New York, could get enmeshed in so remarkable a case — but he needed, in a curious way, the help of a certain tall, spare, stooped old gentleman.

Dear Reader: here’s an opportunity for you to practice “suspension of disbelief.” We promise you’ll have a good time doing it!

I may be losing my mind. But let the facts speak for themselves as I relate this extraordinary series of events.

It began in Washington Square. I was lolling on a bench there, a peaceful character in benign communion with his environment. A fine sunny afternoon. Pigeons free-loading from an old lady wearing a scarlet Robin Hood hat. A Good Humor man peddling his wares. A mechanized cowboy on a tricycle wheeling in to pump some lead into me. In short, the usual mildly hectic park activity that I always found so relaxing.

Part of my mind was also having a bit of a fling as an inventor, implementing an idea suggested by the cane between the knees of an old, old gentleman dozing at the other end of the bench.

Grandpa’s cane had a bulbous silver top, and it somehow made me think of a sword cane — a weapon no longer in vogue because few people carried canes nowadays. But, of course, people still carry umbrellas. Women, especially. And there shouldn’t be any great technical difficulty in designing a sword umbrella with, perhaps, a police whistle built into the handle.

Hence the next logical thought: thousands of women are forced, for one reason or another, to traverse dark streets. Helpless prey to depraved creatures lurking in doorways. A scream, some futile swipes with a handbag, and another vicious crime is on record.

Ah, but suppose the would-be victim has the protection of the Patented Bernie Halper Sword-Whistle Umbrella? A twist of the handle, and the astonished attacker backs away from thin lethal steel. Next, shrill toot-toot of the police whistle and demoralized attacker takes to his heels.

There was an exhilarated period when I saw my maiden effort as an inventor, at the age of sixteen, make history as the crime-deterrent of the century. Then I remembered there happen to be laws against carrying concealed weapons. And how could anyone reliably predict that some babe, supposedly toting my sword-umbrella for her own protection, wasn’t actually en route to skewer a two-timing husband?

So I was trying to figure out how I might get over this legal hurdle when someone yelped, “Boo!” I jerked up, and who should be facing me but Joanie — Joanie Webster, a cute chick with whom I was involved in a moderately active romance.

A chance meeting, this. I made an affable gesture. Joanie settled down between me and dozing Grandpa, and said in her blithe manner, “What dark unhappy thoughts are troubling the genius?”

Evidently my beloved had mistaken creative concentration for mental anguish. “No, it’s just that I had this terrific idea for an invention,” I explained. “Fame and fortune practically in the palm of my hand. But then a legal point came along to louse it up.”

“Dear me,” said Joanie. “Fame and fortune, eh? Bernie, if you had a magic lamp that could make you any famous person who ever lived, who would be your first choice?”

Irrelevance typical of Joanie. But just for the heck of it I complied by giving the old gray cells a nudge. In the next moment the answer sort of roared into me. And I said, somewhat shaken by the spectacular concept of it all, “Dr. Watson, co-occupant of a flat at 221B Baker Street, London, England.”

“Oh, that Dr. Watson,” Joanie said. “No, you can’t include fictional characters.”

Ping! a sour note. My Uncle Simon is a Baker Street Irregular. One of my most burning ambitions is to have the honor some day of being a member of that fabulous Holmesian society. And Joanie had unwittingly struck at the heart of what B.S.I. stood for. Perhaps an ill portent for our future compatibility.

“Look, I don’t want to get into a hassle with you about this,” I told Joanie. “But just as a point of information it happens to be a fact that some pretty famous and distinguished people take the position that Dr. Watson and Holmes are not mere fictional characters.”

Joanie smirked and said, “All right, so my genius believes in the Easter Bunny, the Good Fairy, and Santa Claus. No harm in it.”

I found myself stating with icy calm, “Only a real dumb cluck could make such an idiotic analogy.” That did it, of course. Joanie flushed, jumped up off the bench, clipped, “Goodbye, Mr. Halper. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” And she stalked off.

I watched Joanie’s bobbing ponytail retreat along the path. A once-flourishing romance possibly dealt a fatal blow. Oh, well, I thought, c’est la vie. But now that Washington Square had melancholy associations for me, a change of scenery seemed in order. As I was about to take off, a low deep voice said, “Why not Holmes?”

Its source, I realized, was Grandpa at the other end of the bench, now peering at me with deep-sunken eyes in a yellowish, mummylike face. I sort of blinked at him and he added, “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the young lady. May I ask why, given a choice, you wouldn’t rather be Holmes?”

The query, despite its busybody aspects, had certain validity. I mean, why not Holmes? So I gave it a bit of thought and said, “Well, even in make-believe, I can’t imagine myself — or anyone else — stepping into Holmes’s shoes. There was — and could be — only one Sherlock Holmes.”

Grandpa gave that a bit of thought. “A very good answer, my boy,” he said, “and one that would have amused Holmes. Even as I feel sure Holmes would have been intrigued by the gentleman brooding over a paint brush on the bench facing us.”

I checked. Yep, there was a man alone on the bench across the path. A middle-aged, skinny little guy with glasses, wearing a straw hat and seersucker suit.

“I see a citizen examining a brush,” I said to Grandpa. “What’s extraordinary about that?”

Grandpa sighed, put big gnarled hands on the head of his cane, and said, as he laboriously hoisted himself up to his feet, “Yes, dear Watson also was rather obtuse that way. No offense meant, my boy.”

Off he went, following his cane in a stiff-legged, old-man shuffle. Well! I confess to some pretty wild thoughts as my eyes trailed that tall, spare, stooped figure. Until reason intervened. Obviously, I’d had an amusing encounter with senility of an off-beat nature. Nothing to throw the Baker Street Irregulars into a hysterical tizzy.

Then I glanced again at the little guy across the path and was startled to see him now on his feet, headed straight smack toward me, brush in one hand, a paper bag in the other. Next thing I knew, he was sharing my bench and blurting out in a kind of stuttery squeak, “Excuse me, but would you be interested in earning ten dollars?”

“Doing what?” I asked warily.

“Help me get rid,” he said, “of those twelve hideous birds in my apartment.”

Oh, brother! Yet I detected no boozy breath, saw no mad glitter in the eyes blinking behind the glasses. Just a frail, gray, neatly respectable wisp of a man who looked as if he’d had the pants scared off him. Maybe by something as simple as a couple of pet crows, belonging to a neighbor, making an entry through an open window to indulge in minor thievery.

“If I understood you correctly, sir,” I said, “you need my assistance to remove some unattractive birds loose in your apartment?”

He winced and said, “No, God forbid, the creatures aren’t loose. They’re painted on one of the living-room walls.”

“Oh,” I said. “Painted by a former tenant, I presume?”

“I don’t know who painted them,” he replied in a sudden burst of squeaky virulence. “They’re just there.” He paused, gave me a sickly smile, and continued, “Sorry. Had an upsetting day, and my nerves are a bit on edge. May I introduce myself? I am Horace Plotkin and I live on Thompson Street.”

I said, “I’m Halper, Bernard W., and I live on Waverly Place. What’s the story on those birds?”

“Please forget the birds, Halper,” he said. “I’m sorry I mentioned them. No need to have mentioned them. My problem is simply this: for certain personal reasons I want to paint over a wall in my living room. Purchased, as you can see, a brush and a can of paint in this paper bag. Then I realized it’s quite a high-ceilinged room, and I happen to be afflicted with acrophobia. Am prone to dizziness even when standing on a chair. Hence I must engage someone to paint the upper section of the wall. And, well that’s about it.”

Another sickly smile as he drew a handkerchief and proceeded to mop the sweat on his face. Brother, there were all kinds of warning knells in my mind about Horace Plotkin, Esquire. Only I couldn’t pin down just what in heck could be his motive. He didn’t seem like a character who’d want to lure me to his apartment for some grisly purpose. If a criminal, his appearance suggested the nonviolent embezzler-forger-bigamist type.

The birds! Therein, I felt sure, lay the key to the mystery. I also found myself remembering Holmes’s case that Watson had titled The Five Orange Pips, where pips were used as a death-threat warning. Maybe this was another bizarre version of it. Stool-pigeons are sometimes called canaries. Horrified Plotkin sees a dozen canaries painted on his wall? Realizes its ominous significance? Has some reason why he must smear over them but is stymied by his acrophobia?

It called for a direct challenge, so I said, “Mr. Plotkin, do you want me to believe there’s something sinister in your proposition?”

He practically vibrated as he answered, “Good Lord, no!”

“Then please explain,” I went on, “precisely what there was — is — about those birds that threw you into such an acute state of agitation.”

“You insist on a full explanation?” he asked unhappily.

“Under the circumstances,” I said, “I feel I must.”

“All right,” he said. “Hear this, Halper. I am Horace Plotkin, forty-three years old. Live alone and like it. Employed as bookkeeper in a plumbing supply firm. Currently on my vacation. I spend three days in a resort hotel in Asbury Park. Weather inclement, fellow guests obnoxious. So I return to New York. At this point I must digress to get something on record.

“I want to make it perfectly clear,” Mr. Plotkin continued, “that my curtailed stay in Asbury Park, while ill-advised and ill-fated, was not nerve shattering. Actually, I was in excellent spirits as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. Pleasant anticipation of watering my African violets and a personal soak in a nice warm bath. Then I unlock the door, enter the apartment, deposit my suitcase in a closet, turn — and there they are. The birds! Painted on the wall above the couch.”

“Canaries?” I interjected.

He shook his head and asked, “Now what on earth made you think they were canaries?”

“Canaries are birds,” I offered in rather weak rebuttal.

“So they are,” he said. “Please, Halper, I’ve enough on my mind without brooding on what might be on your mind. Anyway, the birds I’m talking about are tropical birds called toucans. Monstrous beaks, violent coloring. Twelve of them, Halper — I counted. Staring back at me with hostile, mean, beady little eyes. Most unnerving experience of my entire life. And don’t ask me how or why the creatures appeared on the wall — I simply don’t know. Have spent the past hour racking my brains and I still can’t even hazard a wild guess.”

“Steady, sir,” I admonished. “Have you conferred with your landlord or the janitor?”

“Landlord and janitor live off the premises, unavailable for immediate conference,” he said. “Besides, I’ve known both many years, and neither of them could be responsible for those crude, vulgar, evil-eyed birds. So I’ve decided on an out-of-sight and out-of-mind counterattack, and if you’ll just help me paint the wall—”

“Just one more question, please,” I interrupted. “I presume you saw the birds, screeched, and bolted out of your apartment?”

“I didn’t screech,” Mr. Plotkin retorted. “But I did make a rather hasty exit. Partly because I had heart palpitations and felt the need of fresh air. Furthermore, I don’t see why you should address me in such an unkind manner.”

“I was only trying to point out,” I explained patiently, “the possibility of the Phantom Painter leaving an explanatory note somewhere in your apartment.”

He stared at me, glassy-eyed behind his glasses. “Good Lord, Halper, I haven’t thought of that. An explanatory note, hey? Yes, of course. Yet how could anyone explain such a mad act of vandalism?”

“That, sir,” I told him, “is what we’re going to try to ferret put. Forthwith.”

And forthwith it was, old Plotkin and I taking off from the bench. On the double. As we hurried along, Mr. Plotkin babbling breathless inanities, I retrieved from the back of my mind something I sure as heck hadn’t forgotten: to wit, the extraordinary interchange with Grandpa.

It seemed apparent now that the old gentleman must be a Mentalist like Dunninger. Retired professionally, but still in possession of his mind-reading faculties. He observes a man staring at a paint brush. Idly concentrates on what said brush-starer might be thinking about. And is astonished to get the return message of twelve painted toucans terrifying old Plotkin. Possibly a Holmesian scholar, Grandpa then concludes, quite correctly, that it was, indeed, precisely the sort of problem that would have intrigued Holmes. Any other explanation, despite my loyalty to the Baker Street Irregulars, bordered on madness.

Thus I felt a mounting excitement as Mr. Plotkin led me through the ground-floor entrance of a small, neat brick apartment building. I trailed him up a flight of stairs, where he paused before a door marked 2B. He unlocked the door, pushed it inward, and said in a dramatic whisper as he waved me inside, “Brace yourself for a bit of a shock, Halper. You’ll see the creatures on your left as you enter, above the sofa.”

I walked on in. Yes, a bit of a shock, all right. There was the overstuffed old-timer of a sofa. Above it, on an otherwise pristine wall, were three Courier & Ives prints. No birds. And my promising Case of the Phantom Painter abruptly degenerated into the Case of the Batty Bookkeeper.

I whirled as I heard a thud behind me. Mr. Plotkin had dropped the paper bag containing the brush and can of paint.

“Don’t say it, Halper,” he moaned. “I know! Had a cousin on my mother’s side who died in an insane asylum. Now the tainted blood has come out in me.”

He staggered to a chair, collapsed in it. I was alone with a self-confessed lunatic — poor old Plotkin, cowering in the chair there, destined for incarceration in some Snake Pit.

“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” I asked.

He removed his hat, exposing a balding, dampish dome. “Well, your mother might be pleased by my African violets. Take as many as you can carry. I like to think they’ll have a good home when I’m gone. I also want you, personally, to have another cherished possession of mine — a Samurai sword an office colleague brought back from the South Pacific. I’ll get it for you.”

I said quickly, “No, thank you, I already have a Samurai sword. No point having two of them, is there? And please try to compose yourself, Mr. Plotkin. While I’m no qualified expert, it surely seems to me that a single hallucination cannot be conclusive of madness.”

“Hah, but I’m already having another,” he announced miserably. “Please note the three prints above the sofa. In the eighteen peaceful years that I have enjoyed this apartment, those prints have always — always, Halper — hung in the following order: the Clipper Ship ‘Dreadnought,’ the Sleigh Scene, and the View of New York Harbor From Brooklyn Heights in 1849. Now I’m imagining that the Dreadnaught and the Sleigh Scene have reversed positions on the wall.”

I did a sudden double-take and said, “But it isn’t a hallucination, Mr. Plotkin. I also see the prints in the order — or out of order — you just described. The two people in the sleigh; then the sailing ship, then the harbor scene.”

“Halper, you’re not merely trying to humor a maniac?”

“Absolutely not,” I affirmed. “If the first two prints are in reversed positions, then human error must be responsible for it. Do you happen to employ a cleaning woman?”

“Why, yes, Mrs. Yurka was due here this morning,” he replied. “But I mailed her a post card yesterday, saying I had decided to return to New York today, and would rather she came in next Thursday, when I’d be back at the office.”

“Evidently,” I pointed out, “she didn’t receive your post card. Came in this morning. Noted that the glass protecting the prints needed cleaning. Took the prints off the wall. And later accidentally replaced them in the wrong order. So if you were wrong about that supposed hallucination, there’s probably also some simple explanation for the birds.”

Mr. Plotkin sat stone-still a little while, then leaned forward and squeaked, “Halper, you can earn my undying gratitude — and a fast ten-dollar bill — if you could suggest just one even remotely possible explanation why a sane human being could enter his apartment and imagine seeing hideous birds painted on the wall.”

I accepted the challenge — my first opportunity to utilize professionally, so to speak, the science of analytical deduction which Holmes had so often propounded in the Sacred Writings.

Don’t be misled, I thought, by the bizarre aspects of it. Holmes never was. Weigh and consider, with cool detachment, only the evidence on hand. Mrs. Yurka, the cleaning woman, accidentally reverses the positions of the prints above the sofa. That’s what distracts old Plotkin when he enters the apartment. But at the time he’s aware only that something’s wrong.

All right, he keeps staring at the wall. Still can’t figure out what’s wrong. Progressively gets more and more uneasy. Then his staring eyes proceed to tire, blur, water. Possibly he’d been terrified, when a little kid, by a screeching toucan in the Bird House of some zoo. Memory of it emerges from burial in his subconscious. Zing I the tired, blurred, watery eyes conjure up twelve painted toucans on the wall.

“Mr. Plotkin,” I asked, “when have you last had your eyes examined? It’s common knowledge that eye strain can induce weird optical illusions.”

I was about to expound on my theory when Plotkin practically exploded in the chair as he yelped, “By God, that must be it! Yes, of course!” He squirmed around to produce a wallet, extracted some folding money therefrom, slapped same down on an end table near his chair. “Twenty dollars, Halper. Yours with my blessings and a tribute to a remarkable intellect.”

Somewhat dazed, I said, “Thank you, sir. You have been having trouble with your eyes?”

“No, but I broke my glasses a couple weeks ago,” Mr. Plotkin jabbered on. “Found Dr. Boardman, my oculist, away on vacation. So I dug up an old pair lying around here and like an idiot thought I could make do with glasses prescribed twenty-odd years ago! Result: severe eyestrain and the optical illusion of seeing the birds. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must call Dr. Boardman. Phone’s in the bedroom.”

Off to the bedroom scurried Mr. Plotkin. I made a more moderate scurry to take possession of the twenty-dollar bill. Replacing the nothingness in my wallet with the respectable sum of twenty smackers, a distinction said wallet seldom enjoyed, I thought I might as well eager-beaver a final small chore for old Plotkin. In deference to his acrophobia.

So I crossed the room, got up on the soda, reached for the prints above it. Some quick hocus-pocus and the Dreadnaught now proudly sailed nowhere in the Number One position, with the sleigh scene back in Number Two. There, everybody happy!

I brushed dust off my hands, turned to step down from the couch, and did another double-take. Dust? From handling framed prints cleaned by Mrs. Yurka just this morning? I swung back to the wall. Yes, each print bore a clearly visible film of dust. A new, dramatic development, and one that completely negated my original theory.

Suspicion of skulduggery now suggested another theory. The prints couldn’t have changed positions if someone hadn’t fiddled with them. But not for cleaning purposes. Why else, then? Obviously, there was need for a barren wall — to concoct the spectacle of painted birds above the sofa.

Which, of course, next focused my attention on the wall itself. Almost immediately I saw a series of tiny holes, spaced an inch apart, running completely around the edge of the wall. Thumbtacks must have made those holes. And then I spotted a lone ivory-colored thumbtack near the lower-right corner. A small fragment of something seemed to be trapped, beneath it. On closer examination I was able to identify it as a Bit of transparent plastic.

Well! I released the breath I was holding, got down off the couch. Bernie, old boy, I thought, this is a sinister business. Put it through the good old analytical deducer. There’s Mr. Plotkin. A bit of a nut, to begin with. Also a timid, easily scared little guy with a bum ticker. Phantom Painter knows that. So P.P. sneaks in here, removes the prints, tacks on. a sheet of plastic bearing caricatures of venomous-looking birds. Then he hides somewhere, and waits. Hoping Mr. Plotkin will walk in, recoil in horror at the sight of the birds, and collapse with a fatal heart attack.

However, old Plotkin’s bum ticker survives the initial shock. Only palpitations, which quiet down when he escapes into the fresh air. Disappointed but undaunted, Phantom. Painter plays his more subtle ace in the hole. Removes the plastic sheets, hangs the prints back on the wall, and skid-doodles out of the apartment: When Mr. Plotkin returns, no birds above the sofa! Naturally, he decides he’s gone mad. Rather than face a life in a padded cell, he cuts his throat. With his Samurai sword.

Yes, sir, a truly diabolical scheme, and one that would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for me, plus the fact that the Phantom Painter had made the error of replacing the prints in the wrong order.

With Mr. Plotkin still yakking on the phone, I looked around for a likely place where the Phantom Painter might have lurked in waiting. In case he left some clue there. One possibility suggested itself when I saw, beyond the open door of the bathroom, the circular hood of an old-fashioned shower curtain draping into the tub. Anyone hiding inside the shower curtain, peering through the entry slit, would have clear vision of the entrance door and much of the living room.

I went into the bathroom, separated the slit in the curtain, looked down. Jackpot! There were scuff marks and at least one clearly visible imprint of a heel on the otherwise immaculate bottom of the tub. The Phantom Painter’s hiding place. And, of course, the final, conclusive evidence I needed.

Brother, there was lots of frenzied activity up in the cerebral region as I returned to the living room. I mean, I was going round and round. Especially when I realized that I now had still another terrific problem challenging me. Dared I risk alerting a man with a bad heart — who’d already suffered a severe shock — that evil forces were conspiring to drive him to madness and suicide?

If I threw that at him, old Plotkin might well give up the ghost. And there I’d be, standing over a corpse, eligible for an effusive thank-you note from the would-be killer. Possibly, even criminally liable somehow. A situation of utmost delicacy.

As I brooded how I might cope with it, Mr. Plotkin emerged from the bedroom. He looked almost chipper now, the zombie-grayness gone, a pinkish glow even in his oversized ears. Living example, I thought that ignorance can be bliss.

“Dr. Boardman will see me right away,” he reported. “Thanks again, Halper. And now I must run along.”

I mumbled, “Yes, of course,” and trailed him to the door. With an inner voice pounding, You just can’t let him go that way, Bernie — a man’s life and sanity are in jeopardy. The Phantom Painter will strike again. Old Plotkin must be warned. In a subtle manner. Think, Bernie.

An idea came along as we were descending the stairs and I said, “Mr. Plotkin, are you fond of detective stories?”

“I enjoy one now and then,” he answered. “Why?”

“Oh, it has occurred to me,” I went on casually, “that your experience might have the makings of a mystery story. Suppose — just as a literary exercise, mind you — suppose someone who knows you’ve a heart condition dreams up a gimmick that tricks you into thinking you see painted birds above the sofa. An enemy of yours?”

Mr. Plotkin smiled and said, “An amusing idea, Halper. But I’m afraid I can’t qualify as your potential victim. One, there’s nothing wrong with my heart. Two, I’ve no enemies.” He lifted his arm and yelled, “Taxi!”

The cruising cab swung to the curb. Mr. Plotkin got in, waved a cheery farewell. And off he went, leaving a baffled, frustrated character on the sidewalk. Yours truly. I knock my brains out to unearth a fiendish plot and, seemingly, there’s no reason for it. Total absence of motive.

It called for agonizing reappraisal. Which I tried as I walked on. Nearing Sheridan Square I paused in front of an art supplies shop, my attention attracted by a few paintings in the window. And then it occurred to me: could the Phantom Painter be a Greenwich Village artist? A local product? So I went on in, to face a frowsy old babe knitting a canary-colored scarf.

“Good afternoon, Ma’m,” I said. “Would you, perchance, be doing business with — or know socially — an artist who paints on plastic tropical birds called toucans?”

“Perchance I do,” she answered without even interrupting the click of her needles. “Emil Yurka. Basement studio on Cornelia Street. What about him?”

I pretended a coughing spell to conceal the fact that this double-barreled jackpot had almost sent me sailing out my shoes. A Mrs. Yurka was Plotkin’s cleaning woman! Presently, regaining control, I explained, “Oh, a fellow student in my art class claimed he saw a wall thus decorated in a private home. Intrigued, I thought I’d check.”

“Yes, it might have been one of Yurka’s poor man’s murals,” she said. “Stretched plastic. No need to prepare the wall. Transparency supposed to give you choice of background colors. If you want my frank opinion, I think it’s damn foolishness.”

“I value your frank opinion, Ma’am,” I said. “Incidentally, I’ve an uncle who employs a part-time maid called Mrs. Yurka. Would she be related to Emil Yurka?”

The old gal lowered her knitting and said, “His wife, Lena. Sunny boy, just what is there about you that gives me a very peculiar feeling?”

I blinked at this apparent symptom of paranoia. Fortunately, the phone rang just then. She rose to answer it and I seized the opportunity to make an exit.

Out in the street again, and, brother, I was no longer a bewildered, desolate wanderer. Triumphant juices coursing through me. For I felt I’d cracked the case. Lena Yurka, not Horace Plotkin, was the key figure. Once I realized that, everything came into focus.

I gave it a quick rundown. Lena has some reason why she must lure Emil out of his studio. She knows my client is out of town, has the key to his apartment. So she tells Emil that Mr. Plotkin ordered a poor man’s mural. Out happily trots Emil, leaving her free to pursue whatever she planned to do during his absence. Later, of course, she sneaks back to the apartment and removes the poor man’s mural. Does that while old Plotkin is on the park bench morosely contemplating his paint brush.

The scuff marks and heel print in the bathtub? Heck, Mr. Plotkin probably bought a new shower curtain before he’d left on his vacation. His shoes messed up the tub when he stood in it replacing the old curtain. And, well, that was it — elementary, as Holmes would say.

Yes, sir, a load off my mind as I walked on. Technically, Lena’s furtive maneuvering was no concern of mine. Another case, altogether. But I saw no harm in at least probing the possibility of casing Yurka’s studio. Simply for my own records, so to speak.

So I passed the bank at Sheridan Square, went a bit farther, turned into the relatively short dead-end Cornelia Street, and spotted the sign almost immediately: Emil Yurka — Studio — Original Paintings For Sale — Inspection Invited.

Which, of course, charted my next move. After all, inspection invited. There was a narrowish alley, between the building I was now passing and the one where Yurka had his studio. For no reason at all, I just happened to glance into the alley. And I halted in my tracks. The rear of Emil Yurka’s studio abutted, across an intervening backyard, the rear of the bank on Sheridan Square!

I felt myself breaking out into a sweat. Why, this was like Holmes’s great case titled The Red-Headed League. There, in London, a gullible pawnbroker is lured, through a bizarre scheme, away from his shop, thus granting his phoney assistant the opportunity to tunnel to a bank vault containing a fortune in French gold. Here, in New York, a creator of poor man’s murals is provided with phoney commissions so that human moles might burrow undetected in his subcellar to a fortune in good old American loot,

Simmer down, Bernie, I thought. Use the old noodle. Sure, this could be a potential Crime of the Century. It could also be mere literary and geographical coincidences. No sinister schemes. Maybe old Lena sent Emil rushing out the front door, eager-beavering on his phoney commission, so that she could rush to the back door to admit a boy friend champing at the bit.

I was tempted to let it go at that, but I looked again at the Inspection Invited. A few moments later descended the short flight of steps to a door bearing the message, Open. Walk In. Which I did.

Well, nothing jumped at me from dark corners. I was alone in a big musty-smelling basement studio. Couches and chairs and things of normal variety. Paintings on most of the available wall space. And no sign of life anywhere.

Venturing further into the studio, I began casing the paintings. There were toucans all right, and old Plotkin hadn’t exaggerated. Crudely hideous creatures. There were also unbelievable fish blowing bubbles, winged beasties vaguely suggesting cherubs, other tilings that defied identification. All painted on stretched plastic, and mine was not to reason why.

In fact, my ears, not my eyes, were on the prowl here, trying to detect subterranean activity with picks and shovels. And then I did hear a faint crash-rumbling beneath me. The building shaken by the passage of a heavily laden truck? Or by actual tunneling somewhere below?

I flopped on the floor, placed my ear to it, and listened. Nothing. Just the smell of dust in my kisser, and sudden realization that my behavior bordered on lunacy.

Facing the wall as I lay on the floor, I rolled over and came up to my hands and knees. And froze in that position. A man stood watching me just inside an open door diagonally across the studio. A monstrous hulk of a man, with a brutal, slablike face.

The creepy overtones revved up to a howl. Maybe that was Yurka, but I sure had no intention of hanging around long enough to find out. He was at the far end of the studio. The exit door was maybe six feet behind me. And instinct urged instantaneous departure of jet-propelled nature.

So I scrambled to my feet, and froze again as the giant clipped, “Hold it, Buster!”

So help me, now there was a gun in his hand. He didn’t point it at me. Just kind of showed me the thing. Then he put the gun away and made a come-hither motion with his forefinger.

Honest to God, if my hair didn’t turn pure snow-white then, it should have. Why, he must be the upstairs lookout.. Who saw me put my ear to the floor. And thus knew I was wise to their scheme. Meaning that a certain buttinski named Bernie Halper was about to learn to mind his own business the hard way.

The forefinger continued that horrible beckoning motion and my legs moved along the Last Mile toward the hulking brute. As I approached, a confederate joined him in the doorway. Another depraved criminal face, but one that belonged to a medium-sized fat hoodlum.

The two thugs stepped back and separated as my poor wobbly legs carried on their grim chore. Through the doorway, into the other room. They stopped when a woman’s voice said, “Now what?”

I had a glimpse of an angry-looking battleaxe seated in a chair and of a bearded man in a chair next to her. Then I was spun about, and there was the giant looking down at me with flat, pale killer-eyes.

“All right,” he said, “why were you lying on the floor?”

“Oh, that?” I stalled.

His hand tightened on my shoulder. “Yeah, that.”

Rattling off the first thing that popped up to my mind, I said, “Well, sir, I was merely getting the vertical viewpoint. As opposed to the horizontal. To attain a full perspective of Mr. Yurka’s work. A theory I read somewhere. On account I’m an art student.”

Gibberish no one could believe. Sure enough, the giant shook his head, glanced at Fatso, who shook his head. Here we go, Bernie — mayhem coming up.

The big heavy hand spun me about again as the giant asked, “The kid’s mumbo-jumbo make any sense to you, Yurka?”

The man seated next to the battleaxe was a weird-looking character sporting a beret, dark glasses, and a flowing red beard. He wore a long, filthy butcher-type linen coat and webbed sandals showing dirt-blackened rocs. At the moment he was leaning forward, scratching his left ankle.

“Sure, could be, Lieutenant,” he replied in a thin lisping voice. “Lots of crazy theories floating around. Like, for instance, you thinking Frankie Millard might walk into a police trap here.”

“Lieutenant?” I gasped. “Are you police officers?”

The giant released my shoulder and said, “Yes, I’m Lieutenant Nelson. That’s Detective Brady there. Who’re you?”

Me? I was someone released from a chamber filling with lethal gas into crystal-pure Alpine air. Boy, I even loved that Emil Yurka for clearing the atmosphere. “My name’s Halper,” I said, “Bernard W., and I live on Waverly Place. I’ve some identification cards in my wallet—”

“No, just tell me what you’re doing here. And I want the truth. You turned green when you saw me watching you lying on the floor. If I hadn’t shown a gun, you’d have lit out like a scared rabbit. Why?”

Well, I was only too happy to oblige. Until it suddenly hit me that it might mean a plunge from the frying pan right smack into the fire. It would be sheer madness to tell those hard-eyed detectives that I was checking on crooks tunneling toward the bank on Sheridan Square. Why, even if I convinced them, I’d be off on a fast trip in a straight jacket.

“Well?” the Lieutenant prompted.

Desperate, I said, “I saw Mr. Yurka’s sign and came in merely to inspect his work. If my subsequent behavior seemed peculiar, it’s because I have this unfortunate nervous condition I can’t help.”

The Lieutenant regarded me with an expression I can only describe as one of pure loathing. “I’ll get back to you later,” he promised grimly. “Now, damn it, I want to think this through.”

He lit a cigarette. Brady did likewise. A breather as I envisioned blinding lights, rubber hose. I vowed right there and then that if I ever got out of this mess alive, I’d spend the rest of my life as a dedicated isolationist. Absolutely. I come home and see a chimp smoking a cigar in Pop’s chair, and I peacefully go right on to my own room. Let Mom cope with it. None of my business.

A muttering sound made me glance at Yurka. He had shifted the scratching operation to his other ankle. And I felt my own ankles begin to itch. The basement must be infested with fleas. Yet they didn’t seem to bother old Lena, though I could see bite marks all over her suety legs.

“Let’s play this back, Brady,” the Lieutenant said. “From the beginning. Slow and easy. And work over the cuties as they come along.”

“Okay,” said Brady. “Slow and easy. Frankie Millard. Lena’s brother. Held for armed robbery while convalescing from a gun wound at Bellevue. And Frankie makes a break for it. Slugs a male nurse called Weimar. Puts on Weimar’s clothes. Gets out of the hospital okay. But has only a few minutes start before we hustle down here for a stakeout.”

“Yeah, smart police work,” Lena boomed in a foghorn voice. “I’m only Frankie’s loving sister and Emil is his best pal. And Frankie is too damn stupid to realize this is the first place where cops would come looking for him.”

“Knock it off,” the Lieutenant rasped. “Frankie could telephone for delivery of clothes, money, a gun. He can’t get far in Weimar’s hospital uniform and the few bucks in Weimar’s wallet. Also there’s a bullet hole in his chest that still needs care. He’s got to get under wraps, quick, and stay put. You used to be a nurse before you were sent up on a narcotics rap. And Frankie is still supposed to have seventy grand stashed away from the Wentworth heist. It all could figure — if there’s a gimmick. What are you nodding your head for?”

I jumped as I realized he’d snapped the question at me. “Why, it’s just that I’m impressed by your reasoning, Lieutenant,” I said.

The truth, stated in a respectful manner, yet it only evoked from him a Dracula-like glare. I mean, that big cop hated me. Then he said, “Where the hell were we, Brady? Oh, at our first cutie. We no sooner get here and park across the street when Emil pops out carrying a small suitcase. Scoots up the street and you tag after him. Now could he have pulled a fast one on you somewhere along the line?”

Brady shrugged. “Well, let’s trace it through. I tail Emil to Plotkin’s apartment. Nail him as he’s about to unlock the door. Open the suitcase. Surprise, surprise! A folded plastic sheet, scissors, hammer, thumbtacks. That’s all. Emil explains the apartment belongs to a guy called Plotkin, somebody Lena works for, and he’s using Lena’s key to deliver a mural that Plotkin ordered. Where is Plotkin? Out of town on his vacation, says Emil, and he can prove it’s all on the level if I just give him the few minutes it’d rake to put the thing up on the wall.”

“You checked what Emil might be carrying under that butcher coat?”

“I sure did. Nothing Frankie could use. We go in. He pulls a sofa away from the wall, takes down some pictures above it, fetches a metal stool from the bathroom. Gets up on the stool. Proceeds to tack on those crazy birds. Plastic sheet precut to fit the section of wall there. Then back to the wall goes the sofa. Back to the bathroom goes the stool. And out we go. So, Lieutenant, where and how could he have pulled some gimmick on me?”

Another pause as the Lieutenant and Brady brooded. And I held one of my own. A documented explanation, at last, of how the toucans appeared on Plotkin’s wall. But how account for their disappearance?

Maybe, I thought, Lena feels sorry for Emil because he isn’t selling his paintings. Knows Plotkin is out of town. Tells Emil that Plotkin ordered a mural — to give old depressed Emil a shot in the arm. Later she gets rid of the mural — before Plotkin could make a how-come stink about it. Yes, that’s it, and I get myself in this awful mess because of something as dopey simple as all that. Honestly!

“All right, let’s move on to cutie Number Two,” the Lieutenant said. “You march Emil back here. We move into the studio. Search the joint. No Lena. No Frankie. A half hour passes, then the phone rings. I sit on the extension as Emil answers. A woman’s voice that sounds like Lena’s says, ‘Sam’s Delicatessen?’ ‘Wrong number,’ says Emil and hangs up. Maybe a minute later, Lena comes ambling in. I play a hunch and look for the nearest place from where she might have phoned. Drug store around the corner. Sure enough, man there says Lena was just in to use a pay booth. It figures that she made a prearranged check-up call. But checking — what?”

Brady looked unhappy. Ditto the Lieutenant. Ditto Bernie Halper, now anticipating his turn as cutie Number Three. Emil muttering again attracted another glance from me. And then it happened!

Emil was back at his ankle-scratching routine, only now his fingernails crawled farther up his leg, lifting for a moment his trouser cuff. And I caught a glimpse of the hairy growth on his leg. My heart began to pound. Black hair on his leg. A red beard on his kisser. Fleas don’t bother Lena because she’s used to them. But they bother him.

“Lieutenant,” I said, “I may be able to help you see through this smoke screen of obfuscation. Would Emil Yurka and Frankie Millard both answer to the same general physical description of being tall skinny guys?”

“Yes,” he replied, “and stop talking like you’re reading from a book. So?”

“So,” I said, “one tall skinny guy wearing a beret, dark glasses, and a red beard would look pretty much like another tall skinny guy wearing a beret, dark glasses, and a red beard. If Frankie disguised himself to trick you into thinking he’s Emil—”

“He’d have to get rid of the bandaged wound in his chest,” Brady cut in. “The very first thing I looked for when I frisked Emil. Lieutenant, every time this kid opens his mouth I want to shake him until his teeth rattle.”

“Me, too,” the Lieutenant said.

And my teeth already were practically rattling without any assistance from them. Bernie, stop antagonizing these guys. You’re digging your own grave.

“Oh, I know,” I told Brady, “a trained police officer like yourself would instantly suspect some such deception. But I thought it might have happened later elsewhere.”

The Lieutenant said, “Like what happened later elsewhere?”

Yeah, what? In that last desperate moment I remembered the scuff marks and heel imprint in Plotkin’s bathtub. Someone had stood there.

“Suppose the Yurkas know Frankie plans to break out of Bellevue,” I said, ad-libbing like mad. “And Mr. Plotkin’s apartment is empty on account he’s out of town. So they tell Frankie to go there. Where Lena’s waiting with a false red beard, dark glasses, beret, and clothes identical to Emil’s. And Emil is all set here to pop out with the suitcase when he spots what might be cops watching the place. He knows he’ll be tailed, but he’s got that phoney explanation—”

“The kid’s nuts,” Lena fog-horned. “Can’t you tell he’s nuts?”

“Shut up!” the Lieutenant clipped. He added to me, “Carry on, Bernard W. You’re doing fine.”

“I am?” I said. “It’s just a theory, Lieutenant. In the Plotkin apartment Lena helps Frankie get into those clothes and beard and all. She leaves. Frankie hides in the bathroom. When Emil brings back to the bathroom the metal stool he’d used to tack on the mural — and if in those few moments the interior of the bathroom is out of Officer Brady’s angle of vision — what’s to stop Frankie from emerging as Emil? Frankie able to mimic Emil’s lisping voice. Officer Brady had already checked the real Emil’s chest for a bandaged gun wound, so no further danger of switch being discovered.”

Everything sort of stood stark-still for a little while, excluding the twitching in my legs. Then the Lieutenant said softly, “Yeah, that’s it, all right. The gimmick.”

“It isn’t a kid,” Lena said. “It’s a Thing. Sorry, Frankie. I thought we had it made.”

The man next to her pulled off the false beard, removed the dark glasses. Yellowish eyes looked at me with murderous intent. “Halper, Bernard W.,” he said softly. “A name to remember.”

“That’s for sure,” the Lieutenant said.

And I had this sudden horrible feeling I was going to be sick. Right in front of all those people. I mean, it was some kind of reaction. “Lieutenant,” I managed to gasp out, “I don’t feel so good. May I walk around the block?”

“You may,” he answered.

Brother, I took off. But jet-propelled. Out and through the studio and up the steps into the sanity of the sunlit street. Here my stomach decided it wasn’t going to posenessy problems, after all. Just an over-all wobbliness as I walked on, recalling those awful moments when I fully expected to be clobbered. Moments that must have aged me, and maybe etched interesting lines in my face.

This self-revelation made me feel better. The murder threat in Frankie’s yellowish eyes? Heck, he’s probably a three-time loser. Gets a life sentence. If he ever does get out of prison, he’ll be a doddering old man.

Which reminded me of Grandpa with the silver-knobbed cane. Actually, it was he who had unleashed the forces which subsequently swept me along. Directed my attention to old Plotkin. Brought up Holmes. And maybe, as a Mentalist, was able to project to Mr. Plotkin the idea of contacting me to help paint over the birds. I mean, it was something to think about.

At this point, somewhat to my astonishment, I realized that my ambling along evidently had purpose and direction. For I found myself back in Washington Square, earing the bench where it had all begun.

I settled down on the bench, still marveling about Grandpa as an instrument of Fate. It rated, I thought, a write-up in The Baker Street Journal. So I began sort of playing around with it in my mind when Joanie suddenly bobbed up.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re still here, Bernie,” she blurted out. “Look, I want to apologize. I know I said something that hurt your feelings. Please forgive me. Because I’m very, very fond of you, Bernie.”

Well, that left me pretty breathless, too. Such humility from Joanie was a major victory. A tender moment, one that opened new vistas.

“Forget it,” I said. “Now sit down and I’ll tell you about a most extraordinary experience I’ve just had. You remember the old gentleman sharing the bench with me?”

“No, I don’t,” she answered. “If you mean when I last saw you here, you were alone on the bench.”

I stared at her. No guile in my beloved’s candid blue eyes. “The old man with a silver-knobbed cane,” I said. “Why, he was sitting right there. You must have seen him.”

Joanie said unhappily, “I’m sorry, Bernie. Maybe I just didn’t happen to notice him. Is it important?”

I checked my wallet. Yep, old Plotkin’s token of appreciation still there. “No, it isn’t important,” I told Joanie. “I simply thought he might have dropped this twenty-dollar bill. That’s my extraordinary experience. I look down and there it is. Twenty smackers waiting to be picked up. Now let’s go live it up a little.”

Which we did, glam details of same irrelevant to this chronicle. So Joanie just didn’t happen to notice Grandpa sharing my bench. I mean, there couldn’t be any other explanation, could there?