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A Rainy Night on Drury Lane, Part III — Underneath a Turquoise Sky

№134 ~7 minutes

In which I continue part three of the multi-part short story about an ineffectual detective with a lisp.

Right. I’m sure you’re all dying to find out what happens next to our beloved Detective Wentworth. I won’t hold you for much longer.

In case you’re joining us for the first time, you can read “Part I — With Sensual Red Lips” here. And “Part II — The Brown Note” here. If you’ve already read them then go on, read the next part.

As always, here’s your soundtrack for Part III.

Silhouette of man standing in the rain.

The first two bullets only missed Detective Wentworth by a couple of inches.

“Thon of a bithh!”, he shouted to himself as he threw himself behind a large dumpster. Another bullet flew by, taking a fist sized piece of brick wall as it ricochet into a nearby pile of newspapers.

“Where’th my gun? Where’th my gun?!”, palming his coat pockets trying to find his Smith & Wesson .38 — a panicked thought entered his mind — “Thhit, I forgot it in the office! I took thethe thtupid cookie cutterth with me but I forgot my revolver.”

Just as Detective Wentworth was about to surrender to the idea that he had forgotten his revolver he could feel the hammer of the .38. There — like a cold ice cream on a hot summer day —  the sense of relieve washed over him as he found his Smith & Wesson .38 in his inner left pocket. “Tho, today might not be the day I die after all”, he thought to himself as he pulled out the .38 and swung open the cylinder.

“Only four bulletth left. Gotta make ‘em count”, he tried to focus his train of thought before taking aim towards the mysterious shadow in the alley, who only a few seconds earlier had tried to make his brain a permanent part of the wall behind him. He squeezes the trigger, shoots and misses.

“Three. What if there’th more than one gunman?”, the thought hadn’t crossed his mind until now. If there were two of this bastard, he was done for. Detective Wentworth wasn’t the sharpest shooter by any standards but he might still get a lucky hit. But he would never get lucky twice.

“Two. Thith ith it. Why did the day I forgot to take thothe ecthtra clipth with me, have to be the thame day I get thhot at?”

The rain had subsided a few minutes earlier and as luck would have it, the sun finally began to peak out behind the dense veil of clouds, letting out a few streaks of light that made their way past him and reflected of the glasses worn by the mysterious shadow in the alley. He didn’t waste the opportunity for a clear shot.

“One.”

His final shot did as all the other shots before it and missed.

Click, click. He pulled the trigger hoping that he would have miscounted the number of bullets he had had left. He tossed the .38 to his side as another set of bullets flew through the air like angry wasps, causing a lone pigeon to awaken from its midday slumber and fly away in panic.

There he was, a slightly overweight Private Detective named Dick Wentworth, on what was looking to become his last job. The clouds had dispersed completely now and as he sat crouched underneath a turquoise sky, behind a dumpster — filled with spoiled crayfish and other crustaceans — he couldn’t help but think about some of the choices he had made throughout his life.

A loud twang echoed through the alley as another few rounds ricochets off the dumpster.

Stealing a kiss from Mary back when he was in fourth grade. Right choice. Finding his fathers hidden stash of alcohol and consuming it all in the 2 hours he was home alone, only to vomit it up 15 minutes later. Right choice. Tricking that poor retarded boy in his boarding school to eat dog shit by convincing him it was pudding. Wrong choice? Forgetting to take the extra clips for his .38 when he left the office three days ago. Very wrong choice.

Click, click!

An all too familiar sound, expect it wasn’t Detective Wentworth’s revolver that had made the sound this time.

Without a single breath to hesitate Detective Wentworth jumped out from his protective dumpster and rushed towards the mysterious shadow. Caught off guard by Detective Wentworth’s energized sprint the shadow let out a “Scheiße!” before quickly turning around to run away. But the still wet ground made it difficult to get traction and Detective Wentworth caught up with him halfway through the alley tackling him to the ground.

“Du Drecksack!”, the mysterious stranger exclaimed as he hit the ground.

Detective Wentworth regained his composure faster than the stranger and as he stood up he did his best to seem threatening and imposing, which was helped by the massive amounts of adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“Who thent you? Who wantth me dead? Give me a name and give it fatht!”, he was practically screaming at the stranger who had only just regained his balance and was beginning to stand up.

“Fick dich, du Arschloch! Ich sage nicht, dass Sie nichts, Sie Drecksau…”

The stranger — making no intentions to stop his cursing — was slightly taller than Detective Wentworth but before either of them had the chance to notice it Detective Wentworth punched him in the left eye causing him to go down on one knee.

“Don’t make me have to repeat mythelf! I don’t like repeating mythelf!”

The adrenaline was still pumping, although at a substantially lower level, and he could feel his aggressive demeanour heading towards a humiliating halt if he didn’t get some useful information out of this stranger soon. Left with very few options and vivid flashbacks of his own experiences with school yard bullies he did the first thing that came to mind, and kicked the stranger in the groin.

The crunching sound echoed through the alley and the German’s cursing turned into a wheezy couching.

“Einverstanden, Einverstanden! I shall tell you everything that ich weiß.”, he put his left hand up to suggest defeat — cupping his testicles with his right hand —  and tried to stand up again.

“Nur nicht kick me again, sie Amerikanischen schweine”, he muttered under his breath as he finally stood up.

“Ahem. My name is Viktor Kuhnert. Ich war nicht sent to kill you, ich war sent to scare you. But seeing as we are both out of bullets, I think it will be better if you come meet meine Mitarbeiter. Maybe you are a man that can be reasoned with? Here, take my pistol, as you can see es ist out of bullets.

As Viktor Kuhnert leaned forward and handed over his Borchardt C-93 pistol, Detective Wenthworth saw a Großkreuz tattoo on Viktor’s left collarbone.

“Shall we go? Ich habe ein car parked on the other side of this building.”, Viktor tried his best to seem sincere as he gave way for Detective Wentworth.

Continue to Part IV — Leering Pale Green Eyes here.

That Story on Drury Lane

Santa Goes Medieval on Everyone’s Asses

A Rainy Night on Drury Lane, Part VII — A White Blanket of Forgiveness

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