Free Who's There? by Herschel Cozine Page B

here?”
    “OK,” I said. “Can you take me to him?”
    “Is there a reward?” he asked. “I have seven wives to feed, and God knows how many cats.”
    “Maybe,” I said. “We’ll talk about that after you take me to him.”
    We were too late. The little man who wasn’t there wasn’t there. None of the wives could tell when he didn’t leave. The cats, of course, were of no help at all.
    Those of you who are familiar with Sherlock Holmes will know that he lost a single case in his brilliant career when he was outwitted by Irene Adler. This case was my “Irene.” I was beaten; thoroughly, undeniably beaten. I was devastated.
    But I had a client who was expecting a resolution and was paying me well to succeed. I couldn’t let him down. The poor man was at the end of his rope. If I couldn’t find the little man who wasn’t there and convince him to quit not going to my client’s house, I would feel personally responsible for the consequences.
    Thus I told another of my many lies.
    “Mister MacPhee,” I said, “I have good news.”
    Griswold MacPhee looked at me with bright eyes, a trace of a smile on his lips. “Yes? Did you find him?”
    “I did,” I said. “And I told him that he was to quit not coming over to your house at all hours of the day and night.”
    “Did he agree?”
    “Yes,” I said. “He was very apologetic. He had no idea that his absence was causing such distress.”
    Griswold sighed and sat down heavily. “What a relief,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank you. This is such a load off my mind.”
    I patted him on the shoulder. “I’m glad I could be of help.”
    I was hoping that MacPhee would be convinced that he would no longer be bothered. The power of suggestion, I believe it is called. But since I had done nothing to solve the problem, I waived my fee. After all, I do have some ethics.
    Griswold insisted that I at least accept an invitation to dinner at his expense. I agreed.
    “By the way,” he said as he turned to leave. “How did you manage to talk to him if you could never find him?”
    “E-mail,” I said.
    Griswold MacPhee frowned momentarily, then smiled broadly. “Of course,” he said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
    It has been over six months since I “solved” the case, and Griswold seems to be satisfied. In fact he called the other day and invited me to dinner. But I declined. I was afraid we would not run into the little man and this whole mess would start all over again. I couldn’t live with that.