THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLOODY HAND

(From the case files of Sluice Tundra, Private Eye)

Suddenly the door burst open and two men burst in. They were dressed in cheap black suits and wearing dark sunglasses. I was ready to pull out my gat and give them a little argument when the intruders stood aside and let a third man come in. He was wearing a trenchcoat and a pair of those Groucho Marx glasses with the fake nose and moustache, but I saw through the feeble disguise almost immediately.

"What can I do for you Mr. President?" I asked.

He removed the nose and glasses and looked sheepish. 'Dang," he said. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Next time," I suggested, "Leave the Secret Service detail behind."

"Oh..right," he said. "Mr. Tundra, I need your help."

"Always glad to be of service to our country," I said. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I need you to stop a murderer."

"Who is it?" I said.

"Me."

Suddenly the secret Service Agents jumped, startled by a crashing organ chord that seemed to come from behind a nearby curtain.

"What was THAT?" the President asked.

I sighed. "My musical accompaniment. It's a private-eye thing. I liked him a lot better when all he did was play the saxophone. Then again, I could say the same thing about you. " I decided to get down to brass tacks. "So why do you think you need stopping?"

"Well, it's that fellow from the NRA," the President shouted. "He says that I have 'blood on my hands' for the murder of Ricky Byrdsong. He says the coach died because…do you think you could get the organist to stop playing for a second? It's hard to talk over him".

I pulled out my gun and fired a shot through the curtain. The music stopped. I looked over at the Secret Service guys, who had taken cover behind the divan. "Don’t worry," I assured them. "Just a warning shot."

"Why was he playing "Take Me Out To the Ball Game"? the President asked.

I shrugged. "Only song he knows. So anyway, let me get this straight. The guy who shot Byrdsong tried to buy a gun and flunked a background check but he didn’t get arrested. Then he shot Byrdsong and another fellow. And LaPierre of the NRA blames you for not enforcing the firearms laws, even though it was some low-level bureaucrat that screwed up."

The President only nodded glumly. I sat back in my chair and pondered the case for a minute. Then my reverie was interrupted by a ringing phone. I picked it up and listened for a moment. Then I hung it up and looked at the President. "There's been another shooting."

"Oh, God," the President wailed. "I've killed again! Is there no stopping me? Will I never be caught!?"

"Calm down, Bubba," I said. "It's not your fault. You're just an easy target. There's a group out there who hate your guts and who'll jump at any chance to bash you, no matter how ludicrous the accusation. He's apparently playing to that contingent. "

"You mean…" the President's voice grew hushed. "It's the vast right-wing conspiracy again?"

"Nah," I said. "Just a few hard-core nut cases."

"But…but that means LaPierre's written off the moderates who could be his supporters," Bubba said. "Some of them may even leave the NRA. Why would he do that?"

"Mr. President," I said. "There are some mysteries even I can’t solve."

"Thank you, Mr. Tundra," the President blubbered. "You've really helped me out." He and the Secret Service agents left. I sat back in my chair and looked at my secretary.

"Another day's work done, shweetheart," I lisped in my best Bogie imitation.

"Great," she said. "But how are we supposed to get paid?"

I thought about that for a minute.

"Dang," I said.

The organist started playing again. I shot him.

ALL WORKS COPYRIGHT 2000 BY JERRY D. RHOADES, JR.