Hemlar and the Telephone Repair Man Page 2
Hemlar barged into his office. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The man quickly got up and raised his hands in confusion. He was holding a screwdriver.
“I’m the telephone repairman,” he said.
“How did you get in?”
“The landlady let me in.”
Hemlar eased. “Sorry, I thought you were a burglar.”
“It happens a lot,” the man replied with a smile.
“Can I get you something? Maybe coffee or tea?” Hemlar asked.
“No, thanks. I better get this done. I’ve got a busy day today.”
Hemlar excused himself and went into the kitchen. He made himself a cup of tea. As he was taking a sip, everything suddenly made sense.
“How much do I owe you for the installation?” Hemlar asked the man in a hurry.
“It’ll be on your next bill.”
“When you’re done, ask the landlady to lock up.” With that, Hemlar was out the door.
He hailed a taxi.
***
They sat in Mel Collin’s office. The prosecutors were annoyed and were uncertain as to the meeting. The defense sat anxiously waiting and hoping for a miracle.
Hemlar walked in, holding a folder.
Collins introduced Hemlar.
“You’re an investigator?” asked the lead prosecutor.
“Private investigator,” Hemlar said.
“Mr. Hemlar, I don’t know why we are here. This is obviously an open and shut case,” the lead prosecutor said.
“At first glance, yes. But I assure you it is not.”
“I hope you’re not denying all the evidence against Mr. Bennison? I can read them for you…”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m well aware of the evidence.”
“Then what?”
“Let me begin with the evidence. A body in the basement, a knife covered with the victim’s blood, and a flannel shirt belonging to the owner of the house—Mr. Bennison. That seems perfect, too perfect, from my judgment. The first thing I asked myself is why would anyone leave evidence that would lead them to the crime? As the perpetrator I would keep the crime as far away from me as possible. The only logical conclusion that I can formulate is that someone wanted to frame Mr. Bennison.”
“Frame?” exclaimed one of the lead prosecutor’s associates. The lead prosecutor waved him off.
“Yes, frame. But who would want to frame Mr. Bennison? I asked myself. At first I thought it might be Mrs. Bennison. But she would never do anything to harm her family. I became certain of that. Then who?” Hemlar said, turning to the defendant. Patrick Bennison had a puzzled looked over his face.
“That’s right, Mr. Bennison,” Hemlar said. “There’s no one who would personally want to frame you.”
“Then what are you getting at, Mr. Hemlar?” the lead prosecutor said, losing his patience.
“That he was framed not by someone out for personal vengeance but by someone who he had met only briefly.”
“And you have the name of that person?” the lead prosecutor said.
Hemlar held the file in the air. All eyes were now fixed on it.
“I asked myself,” Hemlar started, “if Mr. Bennison is not guilty of the crime, then how did the body get there? Who had access to the house? I found the answer through an encounter with a young telephone repairman.”
Hemlar turned to Patrick. “Mr. Bennison, does the name Gerrard Lester ring a bell?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
Hemlar opened the file and placed it before him. “Mr. Bennison, do you recognize this man?”
Patrick Bennison leaned over and scanned a photo attached with a paper clip. His eyes lit up. “He renovated my basement.”
Hemlar said, “I went to the City Office and found that Gerald Lester had accessed the blueprints of your house. How long did the renovations take?”
“Almost six weeks.”
“Yes. During this period he gained access to the house and hid the body.”
“Without anyone seeing him?” the lead prosecutor asked.
Hemlar turned to Patrick Bennison. “Did he have a key to the basement?”
“Yes, I gave him one. The basement was empty and there were always supplies and materials being delivered.”
“What about the knife and shirt?” the lead prosecutor asked.
“I can answer that,” Patrick Bennison said, now thinking hard. “Gerald Lester gave us a good deal on the renovations so sometimes we would invite him for lunch in our kitchen. Maybe he slipped one of our kitchen knives out.”
“What about the shirt?”
“After lunch he always used our washroom where I hung my shirts on a hook behind the door. He might have snuck the shirt out. We never paid too much attention.”
“Yes,” Hemlar said. “I believe, one night he quietly placed the body in a place he knew from the blueprints of the basement, along with the knife and shirt, and sealed it with a false wall.”
The lead prosecutor shook his head. “That’s a lot of circumstantial evidence.”
“Yes,” Hemlar said. “But a possibility.”
The lead prosecutor thought for a moment and then said, “I’m not saying that Mr. Bennison is not guilty but… we’ll have the authorities look into this.”
***
Hemlar leaned back on his chair. He was reading the morning newspaper. The murder case against Patrick Bennison was thrown out. The authorities had in custody Gerarld Lester, who was a suspect in the murder of Eva Mennez. The authorities believed Lester may have committed other murders as well.
Hemlar continued reading. He was searching for something. Yes. At the bottom of the article was the mention of his name.
The phone rang.
“Good morning,” Hemlar said, picking up the receiver.
It was the voice of David Bennison. “Mr. Hemlar, have you read the morning papers?”
“Yes, I have.”
“I want to thank you for all you have done for my brother.”
“It was my job,” Hemlar said. “How are Mr. and Mrs. Bennison doing?”
“They’re very much relieved. My brother has decided to seek help and work out his family problems.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to pay you much.”
“It was enough to pay my bills.”
There was a knock at the door. Hemlar turned and saw a deliveryman standing at the door.
“Ah, my books!”
Read HEMLAR AND THE TELEPHONE REPAIR MAN and other stories in the collection:
TEN TYPEWRITER TALES
MOBASHAR QURESHI was named one of the ten rising Canadian mystery writers to watch by Quill & Quire Magazine. He is the author of RACE, THE OCTOBER FIVE, and THE PAPERBOYS CLUB.
Visit the author’s website:
www.mobasharqureshi.com
Visit the author’s blog:
Mobashar’s Musings