Part I        
 
The Fall of Harry Limburger      

                The biggest lumps fall the fastest, an anonymous gumshoe once said. That's the way it was with the biggest cheese in the Big Apple, the chunky lump they called Harry Limburger.
        One minute he was at the top of the food chain, a weasel in the henhouse of life, an elephant trampling the mice of commerce. The next minute, he stopped talking and fell face first into his soup.
        "Oddball," he said to me just before the fall. "You're a real oddball." The words hung suspended in the empty space between my ears, as bitter as the grounds in a cup of Cuban coffee. They left a sour taste in my mouth and cut me to the bone. Just who was this guy to call me an oddball? So look who was talking!

        Okay, I admit it: maybe he was right. I'm not exactly your typical button-down businessman.
        I'm a private snoop, pal. I like my guns fast and my dames equipped with silencers; I drink my Nestea soft and slow in mean funky rooms full of clouds of foul smoke from sticks of cheap incense, I play "go fish" with gangsters and princes, and I don't even trust my own left brain.
        But be that as it may, I'm still just a regular Joe. In fact, that's my name. Joe. Joe Schmoe. That's Schmoe, as in "He's a real Schmoe," and don't you forget it, buddy.
        I may be named Schmoe, but I'm as serious as a gall bladder. I put my shoes on one at a time, and I don't smile too much neither, unless it's at Louie the Limper, or at the dames.
        That's my real business: dames and guns: guns and dames. I shoot straight with the one and treat the other like it's got a hair trigger, just like the old man taught me. That's right, I listened to my old man; you want to make something of it?
        Well, I guess you don't. Sorry pal, I got a little rough with you there, and I hope that you'll just forget it. I've been this way ever since the Limburger case. That was a case unlike any other, and it was the one that almost cost me more than I could afford to pay. It was a tough one, see, and I just couldn't stand it when Limburger called me an oddball.
        He said the words, and then he fell face first into his soup. Because his face was not exactly a kosher food additive, I thought that he was just making a joke... trying to pull my leg off.
        "Okay, wise guy," I told him, "you're ruining the chowder." He didn't move an inch, so I courteously kicked him under the table. "C'mon, Limburger," I said, "shape up." The big cheese, however, didn't twitch a muscle.
        "Hey, Limberwitz," I told him, "here's a C-bill if you pull your big ugly mug out of the soup." When my clever crack failed to wake up the wisenheimer, I knew that my routine was dying fast.
        "Oh, a regular joker with a card trick, huh, Limberguy?" I said, "okay then, I'm leaving you with the bill." I stood up like I was about to go. When this last move didn't stir the head in the soup, I knew that something was as rotten as eggs in Denmark.
        "Will Mr. Limburger need another bowl of chowder?" asked the snooty waiter, who had slyly sidled up to the table wearing a face as rubbery as a bad check.
        "Mr. Limburger won't need a thing," I told the nosy dish-bearer, "because he's as dead as a frozen carp."
        "Surely you jest," he snobbily squawked, and he turned to the old man, still face down in his bouillabaisse. "I beg your pardon," he dripped icily as he touched the big cheese on the shoulder.
        It was then that Limburger fell.
        The fall of Limburger was a slow and graceful thing. His motionless bulk teetered at the center of its balance, slightly swaying to and fro before it began a heavy, smooth descent.
        Swinging out into space, away from the shocked snootist, the body seemed to move in silent slow-motion as Limburger's face, yanked from the bowl by his falling body, stared stupidly at us both, surrounded by a deadly halo of glistening droplets of chowder. Then the action suddenly accelerated, and he crashed down to the floor with a bang, pulling behind him a shattering cascade of china dragged off the table by the white tablecloth he clutched in his hands. The tablecloth followed him like a linen wake spreading out behind the good ship Limburger. It chased him down to the floor like a wannabe shroud that didn't quite cover the mess.
        "Yegads!" cried the waiter, turning as white as the cloth.
        "Yegads," I said to him, "that's a funny thing to say at a time like this." I whipped out my notebook and pen. "What's your name, buster?" I asked the guy. Who's to say that he wasn't the killer?
        "Robinson," he gasped, quite obviously overcome by my insightful question. Or maybe it was the dead body. "My name is Jonathan Robinson."
        "Okay, Roberts, now scram," I told him in a friendly fashion. I studied Limburger's corpse as it lay motionless on the floor. He had been a real smart guy, insisting upon breathing and eating regularly, living real healthy so he could end up like this in public with strange people staring and pointing. This wasn't exactly what I had planned on when we'd scheduled a business lunch in the ritziest joint in town. After a bit of such wise philosophizing, I looked up, and here came as guy who must have owned the joint, the way he was acting.
        "We've called an ambulance," he told me, "I've asked if there's a doctor in the house, but one hasn't turned up."
        "This guy needs a doc like I need another one of these meals," I told him, "he needs an undertaker, not an ambulance." He hurried off, wringing his hands and mumbling to himself. And Limburger had called me the oddball.
        Suddenly, a familiar Irish brogue cut through the silence like a hot knife through a bowl of Jello.
        "So, another day, another stiff, eh, Schmoe?" I turned around and perused the unsightly puss of Lt. Paddy Hanratty, N.Y.P.D.
        "What's the matter, Hanratty, no little old ladies around to bust for jaywalking?" Hanratty turned livid at my joke. He never could take any kidding.
        "Don't be pushin' it, Joseph, me boy. And just what relationship did you have with this ghoulish corpse, or should I be afraid to ask?"
        "He was my den leader," I told him, "I warned the guy not to cheat me out of that merit badge."
        "Ho, ho, ho," he chuckled, "very clever. Very clever indeed." He scratched his nose. Hanratty always does that when he needs something. "Now, to be serious," he said, "just what do you know about this foul murder, and who exactly is this poor fellow?"
        "His name was Limburger," I told him, "Harry Limburger. I just met the guy. He invited me to lunch to discuss some kind of problem, and he was just getting ready to sign a check for me when he bought the farm. Believe me, I want this killer as bad as you do." I pulled out a stick of gum and unwrapped it as I talked. By now the boys from homicide were on the scene, so we walked over to the corner of the room.
        "I'd like to tell you, Joseph," Hanratty said, "we've been investigating this Limburger character for some time. I failed to recognize the poor gent when first I laid me eyes upon him." He balefully eyed the prostrate corpse. Limburger sprawled awkwardly across the rich maroon carpet, casually ignoring the technicians who crouched like busy spiders over his spread-eagle form. A large housefly crawled disrespectfully across his open eye. It made me blink. "Now the case has assumed an entirely new aspic," he continued, "and a cruelly venomous one at that." I let Hanratty's mistaken pronunciation pass without a comment. He was closer to the truth than he imagined.
        "I hated to see this guy get stiffed," I told Hanratty, "he was just fixing to give me the name of some guy who's been threatening him lately. And what's worse, he had his checkbook in his hand when he dove into the soup." These two threads of unfinished business were like untied shoelaces trailing along behind my brain as I tried to think. "He thought that this guy was out to kill him," I added, "that's why he was going to hire me." I looked Hanratty in the eyes. "Oh, by the way," I said, "you'd better tell your forensics detectives to be careful. There's enough cyanide in that soup to kill half of Queens." His eyes narrowed suspiciously as I popped the stick of gum into my mouth. It had already gotten enough air.
        "And how exactly are you to be knowin' this, me fine upstandin' Schmoe?"
        "Simplemente, my dear copper," I waxed elegantly, "it's either that or they ought to rename that chowder "Almond Surprise." The unmistakable bitter-almond smell of cyanide had soaked the atmosphere with the unseemly, sinister stench of death. Hanratty gave forensics the info, and then he led a fuzzy-cheeked junior detective over to my side.
        "I've brought you a real treat, Joe, me boy," he told me, "'tis a certain young Turk, or should I say Frenchman, most recently joined to the force. Good luck to the both o' ye," he said with a wink, and, chuckling to himself, he departed. The young pup showed me his teeth and stuck out his hand.
        "Pleased to meet you, sir, I've heard so much about you. I'm Dupin, Henry Dupin."
        "Good to meet you, Duper," I said, "are you any relation to the football player? The guy who used to play on the Florida Fish? You know, the one I mean; he deflected passes from the big-time quarterback who lived on a boat… the one Don Johnson rented for Miami Vice… anyway, the quarterback was nicknamed, 'The Miami Marina'."
        For some reason, the kid looked confused.
        "My name is Henry Dupin, not Duper," he declared. "And I believe you are referring to Dan Marino, the famous quarterback who played for the Miami Dolphins." The kid was agitated beyond his years, displaying a certain excitability of nature… just like his great-grandfather, if my guess was correct.
        "Sure, kid," I said, "I'm just pulling your hamstring. I recognize your last name, allright. I know all about your great granddad, Henry Dupin, the famous French brain. He was a real detective's detective. It's a mighty sorry private eyeball that hasn't heard about that guy.
        "Not every snoop-for-hire gets written up by the great Edgar Allen Poe, but your grandfather made the cut, all right. Junkyard Eddie P could write a mean story, kid; he was a real Schmoe." This witty and generous comment lit up the kid like a lamp.
        "I've always admired your work,' he declared, "especially the Oak Ridge Case."
        "Those government boys have trouble chewing gum and talking at the same time," I told him.
        "And the Moscow murders."
        "Never catch a Russian dressing," I warned him.
        "And the California Wine Caper."
        "Merely the champagne of all mysteries," I popped off. "So, tell me kid," I steamrollered ahead, "what's the inside dirt on all of these witnesses?"
        "Well," he said, "we caught a waiter sneaking out the back door. He claims that you told him to beat it."
        "The scalawag," I said with a grin, "what else?" The kid looked at his note pad.
        "There's Fullbright, the garbage man."
        "A garbage man?" I asked surprised, "eating in a classy joint like this?"
        "Yeah, sure. Have you seen what those guys are paid these days?"
        "So who else?" I asked him.
        "Oh yeah, this Fullbright guy picks his teeth with a solid gold toothpick, and moonlights electroplating jewelry."
        "O.K."
        "There's Stella, the Blonde Bombshell."
        "Beautiful, huh?"
        "No," said the kid, "she works at the circus. She gets shot out of a cannon. Really." He looked at me defensively.
        "Who else?" I asked.
        "There's Willy Wimply, the fish salesman."
        "Don't tell me, this Wimply guy sells red herrings," I said.
        "Yeah. How'd you know?" squeaked the kid, rechecking his notes.
        "That's my job, junior," I told him, "I also know that you are from Indiana, that you were born on June 15th, 1978, that your favorite ice cream flavor is fudge mocha, and that you have always secretly desired to be a fireman."
        "Incredible!" he gasped, sucking air like a beached whale, "how did you do that?"
        "Elementary, my fuzzy-faced flatfoot," I classily declared, "your teeth show evidence of techniques only used in the "Indiana School" of dentistry. Your birthdate I deduced from the looks of your class ring, using a formula of my own that uses the relationship between birthdates, eye color, and scratches on high school rings. The ice cream selection was a natural, due to a large fudge mocha stain on your lapel, and I figured out that last thing about your secret desires while I thought about the first three."
        "Why, this is all the more amazing!" he cried, "I never wore braces in my life, or even had a cavity filled, I bought this class ring in a pawn shop, and this stain on my lapel is a gravy stain, and yet you are still absolutely correct in your conclusions, even the one about my innermost secret!"
        "Sure, kid," I told the hapless squirt, "I know, I know. But all of that deduction stuff can get boring. Besides, who says that reality has to fall into line with our thinking? It is our own thinking that's got to learn from reality, kid, like those egg-headed scientists have showed us throughout history, from Aristotle to Figaro." I paused. "So could you ask Hanratty to send some copies of the file on the Limburger investigation over to my office?"
        "Well, it isn't recommended procedure," he said, "but sure, why not? Of course," he added, "you realize that I'll need your statement about what happened here today." I was looking around the room as he spoke.
        "Yeah, sure, kid," I replied. My eyes lit on a wizened busboy who was gathering up dishes in the corner of the room.
        "Who's he?" I asked Henry. He didn't know, so I walked over to the little fellow. "Now, look here, my good sir," I began, using some of the best manners that I had handy, "would you mind telling us your name?"
        "Januk Oltrawycz," he told us.
        "Oh, a German, huh?" I asked the guy.
        "No sir," he answered, "I'm Polish-American."
        "Look here, Janov," I said, "here's a twenty spot. Drop on over to my office when you get through with the kid here. I've got some questions for you, and there's plenty more dough where that came from." He nodded. "By the way," I enquired, "how's the 'kraut in this joint? I know how you Germans love the 'kraut and knockwurst."
        "I'm American. My ancestors were Polish, not German," he told me, "and I don't like 'kraut, anyway." At this point I had to leave the little guy and give the kid my official statement, which I cooked up and delivered in short order. In the meanwhile the boys had dusted the joint, and now it was my turn.
        "Well, see you later, Duper," I said to the cop. "You too, Janov."
        "Look, mister, where's your office?" Januk asked me as I headed for the door.
        "It's in the phone book," I told the dish-toting Hun, "under Schmoe!" As I stepped out of the crowded room I heard all of them explode into laughter. The sound echoed through the hallway, causing heads to turn as I blushed and hurried out through the front door.
        I hate it when they do that.
        I walked quickly away from the scene of crime. Hurrying down the crowded sidewalk, I was mulling things over, just trying to dope it all out, when a big, beefy guy in a dirty gray suit came up to me like he wanted to ask a question.
        I didn't see the knife until it was too late.