A case for Inspector Montgomery*

A thrilling crime mystery for boys & girls of all ages starring ukmonty



Constable Wiggins looked at the body lying on the living room floor. A tall, well-built man in his thirties, the deceased lay contorted into an unnatural position with a thick mess of blood staining the carpet around his head. “It’s a shockin’ crime, Guv’nor”, he said.
Sergeant Cruikshank nodded. “Nasty business it is orlright”, he agreed. “I ‘ear that the Yard is taking a personal interest in this one.”
“Really, sir?”
“So I hear. They’re sending one of their best men – Inspector Montgomery – to look over the scene.”
“Gor, strike a light! Inspector Monty? But ‘e’s…famous! I was lookin’ into some stolen goods down in the Dog ‘n Duck the other week and everyone in there ‘ad ‘eard of ‘im!”
From outside the house there was a loud clatter, as if of someone stumbling into dustbins. “This’ll be ‘im now”, observed the Sergeant.
Cruikshank was correct. Through the front door came the tall, sharply dressed figure of the great detective. He looked over the scene and his sharp, searching gaze seemed to take in everything of importance with a glance. “Murder, hmn?” Asked the Inspector, rhetorically.
“Yes, sir. A nasty business.”
“No such thing, Constable. There’s nothing I like better than opening up a new case.” The Inspector walked around the room, looking first at the body and then at the decoration, and then opening up cupboards and drawers as he paced. “I can see it now. The deceased was seated here…” he sat in an overstuffed leather armchair, “drinking this glass of – “ he picked up a glass from a small table next to the seat and sniffed “-rather fine Madeira wine.” He paused and thought for a moment. “I suspect poison.”
“But sir…’is ‘ead’…it’s been ‘it wiv the poker”. Wiggins indicated the gory tool by the fireside.
“That, constable, is what they want you to think.” Inspector Montgomery took a longer sniff of the glass he still held. “Mark my words, gentlemen, we’re dealing with a criminal of singular intellect. It’s a poisoning case, or my name isn’t Montgomery.”
Wiggins and Cruikshank could only look on in silent respect.
“I suspect that this Madeira has been poisoned, and there is only one way to be quickly sure.” Before anyone could stop him, the Inspector had drained the glass. A long moment passed. “No, no effect yet…”, murmured the Inspector, “perhaps there is a stronger concentration in the bottle.” He refilled the glass and emptied it with a swallow.
“Anything, sir?” Asked Wiggins, respectfully.
“Not yet, Constable, but one must be sure”, replied the Inspector as he refilled the glass for a third and then a fourth time.
“Perhaps we could send it to the labs, sir?”, asked Cruikshank.
“Piffle!” cried the Detective. “Lazy dolts in white coats. “They lack my exshperience!” He raised the port bottle to one eye. “I say, it rather seems the Madeira wasn’t the poisoned one.”
With that, Inspector Montgomery stood once again and walked to the drinks cabinet, throwing it open. “A-ha!” he cried.
“A clue, sir?”
“I think so, Sergeant. The almondy scent of this bottle of Amaretto would hide the distinctive whiff of Hydrogen Cyanide!” The Inspector uncorked the bottle with a pop and filled a large schooner and took a large gulp.
“Well, sir?”
“Most odd. I’d shwear there was a faint taste of poison…I’d better have another, just to be sure…”
Sir! Cyanide? Is that safe, sir?”
“Don’t you worry about me, Shergeant! I’ve spent years building up a tolerance!”
“A tolerance to Cyanide, sir?”
But there was no answer save a rhythmic glugging.

*

The Amaretto, MacAllan, and the Jacobs Landing had all proven to be free of poison, but the dauntless 'tec was not to be put off the scent. Rummaging in the back of the cabinet, he produced a bottle of sickly, green liquid. “Gotcha!” he cried.
“What is it sir? Is it…” Wiggins’ voice dropped to a whisper “…poison?”
“Shome people might *hurp* say so. Ukranian Abshinthe!” The detective filled his glass and knocked it back in one. Immediately his face was contorted with an expression of pain the like of which neither copper had ever seen before.
“Great God!” Cried Cruickshank. “He was right! He’s been poisoned!”
“Not half”, gagged the Inspector. “The Odessa ’97 vintage. By God, it’s like paint shtripper. I’ll be glad when I’ve finishshed drinking…teshting…thish bottle, by God yesh. Chrisht.” He poured another glass.

*

“Well, you fellowsh”, said the Inspector, attempting to stand, failing, and sitting back down heavily.” Nothing in the Madeira, the Amaretto, the MacAllan, the *Wince* Ukrainian Abshinthe, nor the Rum. I shwear, thish ish a three-pipe problem.”
“I hope you brought plenty of tobacco, sir.”
“Tobacco? Not that short of pipe, you imbeshile! A pipe of port!** Fortunately, the desheashed sheemsh to have had a rather fine shellar laid down. I’d better get to work. I’ve some hard thinking to do.” With a loud pop, the Intrepid Detective opened the first of 2136 bottles of port. It was going to be a very long night.


<sup>* I swear, one of these days, Monty is so going to kill me.

**A pipe of port is equivalent to 115 gallons, or a little over 700 bottles.</sup>