Chapter 2

Private detective Kevin Kris was passing time on this warm August evening at his desk as usual. His office was in a cozy, two-story building in Forest Hills Gardens, one of the quieter streets in New York.

Its unusual architectural style made the building look more like a stately home than a detective agency. It had a quaint tower that brought to mind the romantic image of a medieval fortress. On the second floor, a mass of green vines wove carefully in and out of the wooden balcony fence. This was where the private eye liked to sit and sip his strong coffee in inclement weather.

There were only two members of staff at the detective agency: Kris himself and his faithful assistant, Penny, who was also a freelance journalist with a big New York publication. Business had been pretty good, and the private eye had made something of a name for himself in certain parts of the Big Apple.

However, in the last three weeks Kris had had no clients, and he had been spending his free time switching between studying the catalog of an important upcoming auction, going to the gym, and playing Go with Penny.

Kris lovingly dusted his gleaming collection of antique guns, swords, daggers and knives. Penny was at her computer, working on an article analyzing the crime level in the Bronx over the last five years. Her beautiful green eyes burned enthusiastically and she was even a little flushed with excitement. At times like this, nothing could distract her from her writing.

Wiping his already spotless musket, dating to the French Revolution,

Kris picked up a dog-eared catalog for the upcoming auction. Being an inveterate collector of ancient weapons, the private eye was planning to join the bidding for a 15th century katana, a large, two-handled Japanese sword.

Before long, Penny said goodbye and left for home. Kris remained sitting in his armchair, mulling over the coveted katana in the picture, when suddenly the doorbell rang.

On the doorstep stood a respectable-looking middle-aged man in a stylish suit. His long, dark hair was combed back, and his puffy red eyes indicated that he had not had much sleep. The visitor was pale and clearly agitated.

Kris let his visitor in and gestured to the armchair by his desk.

"My name's Edmund Peterson," said the visitor, introducing himself.

"Can I get straight down to business?"

"Fire away," replied Kris, listening attentively.

"Yesterday, August 6, at 2.30 a.m., the body of my father, Morris Peterson, was found in the Brooklyn ghetto." Edmund paused to gather his thoughts, struggling with every word. "My father and his third wife, Jessica, arrived in New York on August 5 to attend an auction.

They wanted to sell some kind of medallion. That same evening, Jessica went out to a nightclub and when she came back to the hotel in the morning, the police were waiting with the news."

Edmund stopped.

"How did your father die?" asked Kris.

"According to the doctors, he had a severe shock that made his heart stop. What's more, his face was twisted into an expression of unspeakable horror. Seeing him in the morgue, I literally vomited."

"You mean he was frightened to death?" Kris inquired.

"It looks like it. My father must have seen something so horrendous that his heart couldn't take it."

"Did your father have any health problems?" the private detective asked.

"He never complained about any, as far as I know."

"What was Mr Peterson doing in the Brooklyn ghetto?"

"That's something no one knows." Edmund shook his head. "My father was a respectable and respected businessman, a millionaire with businesses all over the world. I've no idea what he could've been doing in such a place at that time of night."

"When did Mr Peterson leave the hotel?"

"The inspector told me that my father went out at 11.30 p.m. and caught a cab to an unknown destination," Edmund replied.

"Did the police tell you anything else?" asked Kris.

"Only that they found a single clue at the scene of the crime, and I don't have any idea how it could have got there," said Edmund, slowly.

"There was a book on his chest."

"What book?"

"Mythical Creatures of Ancient Greece. It was published in New York this year and was opened at the page on Chimera."

"A monster with the head of a lion, the body of a goat and a serpent for a tail. The offspring of Typhon and Echidna that was slain by Bellerophon, at the command of King Iobates." Kris nodded. "Was your father interested in Ancient Greek legends?"

"He didn't know anything about them." Edmund shook his head.

"On the page it was open at, someone had made a simple, pencil sketch of a king on his throne, and some woman."

"Hmm," said the detective, pondering this. "Were there any wounds, cuts or bruises on the body?"

"No. There were no signs of violence. It looked as if he just died, just like that."

"Did he have any enemies?"

"My father was an extremely wealthy man. I'm sure you realize that enough people were jealous of him."

"Had anything been taken from the scene of the crime?"

"Not a thing. His wallet, containing five thousand dollars, was untouched."

Kris thoughtfully massaged his left temple with his index finger. It was a pity Penny had gone home. This looked like being a rather interesting case!

"Did Mr Peterson often go to auctions?"

"At least twice a year. Sometimes he sold things. He might decide that he was fed up with something and auction it off. He was passionate about antiques, an honorary member of a Parisian collectors' club, and he was interested in painting too."

For a while, the private detective and the dead millionaire's son stood in silence together.

"Do you think Mr Peterson was murdered?" The detective broke the silence.

Edmund, seeming to come out of a trance, said earnestly,

"I know who did it."

Kris looked coolly at his client.

"His third wife, Jessica. She's the murderer. She never loved my father and only married him for his money," Edmund said, with conviction. "She's real sly and cunning. Jessica set things up to make it look like my father had died of natural causes, and put that stupid book there to fool everyone, to make it seem that dad was killed by some crazy idiot, not a respectable lady of society, a millionaire's wife."

"How did Mrs Peterson manage to lure her husband to the Brooklyn ghetto?" asked Kris.

"I have absolutely no idea." Edmund shrugged. "That's why I'm here. I want you to prove that it was Jessica who murdered my father."

"Why are you so sure that Mr Peterson was killed by his wife?"

"Under the terms of his will, Jessica stands to inherit most of my father's assets when he dies."

"You do know that my services aren't cheap?"

"I'm not concerned about the money," Edmund replied. "Jessica's going to pay for my father's death."

"Well then, my fee for solving the case will be the katana that you're going to buy at tomorrow's auction," said the detective, handing

Edmund the catalog with the picture of the weapon.

"It's a deal."

Kris and Edmund Peterson shook hands.

The investigation had begun.