People are Weird

T

he three things I have learned in my fifteen years as a PI were: people are weird, you always need more money than you have, and the police are rarely there when you need them. There were other things, but those are the primary ones.
         April 8th, 1951 was the day I got a couple of C-notes for getting hit on the head. I remember that was sitting in my 2nd story walk-up office trying to will the phone to ring. It had been stubbornly silent for the last three days. If it didn't ring, or someone come into the office soon, I was going to have to start thinking about getting a real job.
         I was pulled from that ugly thought by the sound of my outer door opening. Then the inner door opened, and a tall and thin woman stepped into my inner office. She was so thin that if she turned sideways, I was pretty sure she'd be invisible. The man who followed her in was the opposite. A little shorter than me and quite rotund. They were well-dressed; not rich, but well enough that they looked like they would keep me from having to do real work.
         "Please have a seat," I rose slightly as I waved them to the seats in front of my desk. While she settled into the seat, he took up a position right behind her. I slid a pad of paper to the center of my desk and picked up a pencil.
         "First things first, who are you?" I asked.
         "I am Gertrude Hammil and this is Francis Hack. He is my fiancé."
         I write their names down.Hammil and Hack. Why is that familiar?
         "How may I be of assistance?"
         "We believe we are being followed," Ms. Hammil said. Her voice was high-pitched, and quite melodious.
         "What makes you think you are being followed?" I asked, then I noticed that the doors were open. I excused myself and closed the two doors, and when I returned they'd switched positions; he was sitting, and she was standing behind the chair. Odd
         "Everyday we leave our rooms at the Rupert Arms and drive to the studio. There is a blue, late model Packard that leaves at the same time. When we break for lunch it follows us to the café and back to the studio," he said, his voice a deep baritone and also quite melodious.
         "Maybe the studio assigned you a bodyguard?"
         "The studio's bodyguard is our driver."
         "Ah Ok. How many people are in the car?"
         "We don't know. We've never gotten close enough to look in."
         "How about your driver?"
         "He said it's just a coincidence. He won't go look," the lady answered.
         "He is very lazy," Mr. Hack said, as he shook his head.
         "When did this start happening?"
         "About two weeks after we arrived here," Ms. Hammil answered.
         "Do you have any enemies?"
         "Not in this country," Mr. Hack answered.
         "OK, I'll look into it," I said as I went over my standard fees, and they didn't even blink, just laid out a couple of large bills on my desk.
         There was enough there to cover rent for at least three months. Once I got the details about them, I ushered them out of my office. I picked up the bills, put them in my safe, then picked the phone and called my buddy Harold at the Herald.
         "Harry, how's the news biz?"
         "Dead. Nothing is going on this week. Tell me you got something!"
         "I just got a visit from a couple named Hammil and Hack. Is that something?" I asked, I think I actually heard Harry sit up in his chair.
         "Really. The Hammil and Hack? Opera stars from South Africa? In your office?"
         "Should I get my client chair bronzed?"
         "Maybe not that far, but you have been visited by greatness."
         "What do you know about them beyond that? They think they are being followed."
         "Hmm, there is something that I heard ... no, read. Let me call you back," he hung up abruptly.
         I got up and stepped to the window and looked down into the street in front of my building. Parked in front was a late model blue Packard. I couldn't see the plates from here, I turned to back to my desk, and the lights went out in a flash of pain.

I

came to with a ringing sound. It was the phone. I picked myself up off the floor, groaning. My head felt like it'd gone 4 rounds with Marciano. I picked up the receiver and spoke, "Hnnn"
         "I got something interesting," Harry said, then continued. "Hammil was outspoken about Apartheid in South Africa before she went there to sing."
         "She not S'Africa - a - an."
         "Are you alright? You don't so sound good."
         "Uh hmm. Gimme a second," I take a deep breath, let it out, then take a big gulp of a cup of cold coffee that's been on the desk since this morning. Yes, it tasted as good as it sounded."
{indent"I just got sucker punched. Someone must be really mad at them. Weird, whoever it was didn't stay around to ask me anything."
         "In your office?"
         I just let the question hang there for a minute before I said, "This is why I am the PI and you are the newspaper man, Harry."
         "What ... oh, I called you. Anyway, she is from Denmark and has been in South Africa singing for a couple of years. She met Hack there, and they are like-minded about apartheid. So, they started stirring the pot, so-to-speak. From what I have read and heard, those Boers are mean bastards. Your head is still attached, so count yourself lucky. Did he take anything?"
         "Besides my dignity? Let me look around, your call woke me up."
         I looked around hastily, then a little slower, the pad on my desk was missing the top page. I stepped over to the window and, keeping sideways to the room, I peeked out. The Packard was gone. I went back to the phone.
         "Yeah, the bastard took my notes. Like he wanted to stop me from ... oh crap. Harry, I gotta go," I said.
         I remembered where they were staying. I asked Harry to get there as fast as he could and hung up.
         I grabbed my hat, coat and dashed out of my office to my car. I fired up the Studebaker and shot out onto Gracey Avenue. Fortunately, the traffic was light, and I made good time to the Rupert Arms. The Packard was in front. I parked behind it and ran in the front. I took the stairs two at a time and stepped on to the second floor in time to hear a gunshot.
         I raced down the carpeted hall, knowing I was too late.

I

arrived at the door to Hack's room, drew my gun and stepped in cautiously. Hack is sitting in a chair with a handful of papers in his hand. Hammil is standing to his right with a gun in her hand, and lying on the floor is an enormous man with a small hole through his chest; blood was soaking into the rug beneath the body.
         I put my gun away and asked Hammil, "Why did you kill him?"
         She looked at me, waved her hand at the papers in Hack's hands and replied, "He wanted us to sing that. That!"
         "I don't understand."
         "You see, he wrote that, and he wanted us to sing it but ... but ... NOTHING RHYMED."