The Mysteries of Max: Books 25-27

Chapter 4

Mort Hodge was seated at his desk, hard at work as usual, when a sudden sound had him look up.

Mort, a popular and successful creator of comics for daily distribution in all the important and even the less important papers in the country, had made his fortune drawing a daily cartoon about a cat. Titled Mort’s Molly, it had been an instant hit and now, forty years into a lucrative and rewarding career, people still clamored for Mort’s creation. Unlike lots of other cartoons, Mort still did most of the work himself, and had turned part of his home into his office, the nerve center of Mort’s Molly’s universe.

“Megan?” he yelled loudly, referring to his wife. “Megan, is that you?”

When there was no response, he got up and went in search of answers. Next to his desk, a radio was quietly playing, and the atmosphere in the studio was mellow and relaxed, just the way he liked it.

He emerged from his workspace, located at the back of the garden, and glanced around. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he decided he could use a snack, as his tummy was rumbling, and he felt like taking a break. That, and a chat with his wife, to bounce a couple of new ideas off her, and to sit down for that snack and a cup of joe.

It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and Mort had already been busy since six, having risen at five as was his habit. He was an early riser and liked that whole gag about the early bird and the worm. Not that he was into worms, per se, but he did enjoy getting an early start on his day, and getting the bulk of his work done before lunchtime.

“Megan?” he asked as he walked into the house. “Did you just…” The rest of the sentence got stuck in his throat, though, when he observed the mess that was his cozy home. Documents strewn about, couch cushions ripped up, feathers covering every available surface. Tables had been upended and chairs lay like so many fallen soldiers on the battlefield that was his living room. “Megan,” he whispered when his eyes had taken in the devastation, then, louder, “Megan!”

And as he went in search of his helpmeet, a sense of panic took hold of him, and gave him wings as he went from room to room, everywhere finding the same mess and evidence of a recent break-in. Finally he hurtled up the stairs with a speed and alacrity belying his sixty-eight years, and swept into the bedroom. And there, tied to the headboard of the conjugal bed, was his wife. The first thing Mort ascertained was that she was still alive, her eyes wide and fearful, then hopeful when she saw it was him. He moved over to the bed, and started removing the rope with which she’d been tied to the bed, and the gag that had been pressed into her mouth.

“Megan, thank God,” he said. “What happened?”

“There were two men,” she said, a little breathless. “They said they were from the gas company, but once they were inside they overpowered me and dragged me upstairs.”

“Oh, Megan,” he said, and clasped her into his arms. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

She held him close, and for a moment they both relished the fact that no harm had come to them. Then Megan said, “Did they… take anything?”

“I’m not sure. But they did make an awful mess downstairs.”

“The safe,” said Megan, massaging her wrists. “Did you check the safe?”

Together they went into Mort’s old office, which had been turned into a small storage room for all paraphernalia connected with his work, and headed to the safe that was conveniently hidden behind a large portrait of Mort’s Molly. Immediately it became clear to Mort that the safe was quite safe: the portrait hadn’t been moved, and when he did move it, swinging it open on its hinges, he saw that the safe hadn’t been messed with.

He heaved a small sigh of relief. Inside was a minor cache of gold and valuables.

“Weird thieves,” said Megan, as Mort tapped in the code and opened the safe, just to be sure nothing had been taken. “Why would they ransack the house but not touch the safe?”

Mort quickly checked the contents and saw that at first glance everything was still present and accounted for.

“Yeah, weird thieves indeed,” he agreed, then shrugged. “Or maybe we got lucky.”

“We did get lucky,” Megan agreed, as she hugged her husband. “By the same token they could have turned violent when they didn’t find what they were looking for.”

The thought had occurred to Mort, too. Material possessions were all well and good, but mostly he was relieved that no harm had come to his wife, or himself for that matter.

“I think it’s time to call the police,” said Megan.

It was only then that Mort noticed something that really shook him: the door to the big metal bookcase was slightly ajar, the padlock broken and lying on the floor.

And when he looked inside, his heart sank.

“It’s gone,” he said, disbelief suddenly making him weak at the knees.

“Gone?” asked Megan, hurrying over.

“All of them,” he said. He turned at his wife. “They took everything.”

Megan was crestfallen. “So they got what they were looking for after all.”