“So how did you figure me out?”
“It wasn’t easy and there was a bit of luck but we’re not supposed to admit that.”
(flashback)
“Rupert, your close personal friend at the Times, one Eustace Panama on line 3 for you, probably wants to write you up as the Detective of the Year.” Good old J J, couldn’t help but elevate his voice so everyone could get in on the nonsense and punctuate it at the end with a resounding belly laugh. The squad room was definitely on his side with supporting howls.
“What deathly prose does the obit editor need my help with,” I imagined?
“Eustace, always a pleasure to help anyone with their English, which euphemism for dearly departed can I proffer?”
“Feet off the desk detective, I’m actually helping you do your job. I think your guy is about to strike and I might be able to give you a head’s up.”
“Interesting, I’ve had you wrong all along, Eustace. Pray tell, which gems of detecting are you willing to share?
“Our food editor, who is welsh, is planning to celebrate the up coming St. David’s day with traditional welsh recipes and has asked our loyal subscribers for submissions and sweetened it as a contest.”
“And all this will be cleared up in your next few sentences?”
“Well, Rupert the sleuth, it’s taken you several months of wilderness wandering on this guy without success so you can afford me a few minutes of your plentiful head scratching time.”
“I’m properly put in my place, please continue.”
“So our food editor gets a recipe for welsh rarebit and it’s signed Randy Trollop. She thought that was pretty unusual so she showed it to me and that’s why I called you. Isn’t that ‘your guy’? Always coming up with weird names and first name last name starting like yours, with an R and a T?
“I bow in your presence, Eustace, I think you’re on to something. Let me get back to you.”
So, without any wise cracks from J J, a spirited plan distills.
“Eustace, when can we three: you, the food editor and I get together?”
(next day)
“Rupert, this is Beti Thomas, our food editor; Beti this is Rupert Tillinghast a detective at number 5 division. Show her your badge, Rupert.”
(Beti breaks into an embarrassed giggle) “It’s for my grandson, Mr. Tillinghast, when I said I had a meeting with a real detective he asked me to see your badge so I could describe it to him.”
“My pleasure Beti, I thought for a moment Eustace was making sure I was still gainfully employed by the department. Beti, I understand Eustace has explained the situation. Would you and the paper have any objection to setting a trap and awarding our RandyTrollop a prize?”
“Heavens no, it’s very exciting. And I like your suggestion that it be third prize. I doubt if anyone will suspect anything. His recipe, while dated, works by the way.”
“Good and thanks for your help. And to you, too, Eustace; should be a fun story, ‘Paper holds recipe for catching the c(r)ook.”
“Don’t give up your day job, Tillinghast.”
(Back to the present at division headquarters)
“So you won third prize and you weren’t suspicious?”
“A bit of a surprise, granted, but not totally unexpected; that recipe’s been in the family for generations.”
“But you didn’t pick up the cheque.”
“Just in case you somehow were aware of the contest and put two and two together, that would be too easy for you.”
“Well done. And then you had your ‘courier’ mail you the cheque.”
“Yes, I thought, again, if you were on to me, it would be too easy for you to follow the courier to my place.”“Well done again. But you didn’t realize that we could, once the cheque was deposited and cleared back to the paper, trace the account where it was deposited.”
“I was tempted not to cash it, just for that reason, but maybe you weren’t on to me and the $50 prize was always planned to pay for the courier. By the way, that was a nice touch, having the bank call me in because they had credited my account with $500 and needed my signature on the correction.“
“Had you thought of signing the cheque over to the courier and letting him take the fall?”
“That would have been interesting, and not that nice, but it would just have delayed the inevitable. So, what are you going to do with me?”
“Wish you well.”
“Is that it?”
“Well, once we found out who you were, it would be hard for you to continue with the fun wouldn’t it?”
“True. Anything else?”
“You might want to give the bank back its $200 and Ms. Lin and Ms. Laliberté some roses. And maybe a potted plant to the mayor’s neighbour.”
“Yes, I can handle that. And to thank you, because you and the force have been such good sports about all this, what do you think of this note I plan to send to the Times?”
Dear Eustace Panama:
I’m the one who has been infuriating the police and giving you good copy these last few months. But now it’s over. You’ll be surprised to hear, but also pleased, I’m sure, that Rupert Tillinghast got the better of me. The police, to their credit, have written off my shenanigans on my promise to take the straight and narrow path from now on.
Whether you acknowledge this or not in your paper, it’s of no mind to me but that’s something that you and Rupert might want to thrash out over a beer.
No, I won’t give you my name; I’ll leave that up to you to discuss with the police.
“Thank you, very nice. Just curious, what is your name? Not Rebus!”
(Laughing) “No, that would be too much, it’s Rhys. Rhys Trahern, welsh ancestry through and through.”
“So you actually do have a first name starting with R and a last name starting with T?”
“Yes, and since my friends were never sure how to pronounce my name, they’ve always called me Arty.”