Chapter 4, Cuff Placket: Private Eye

Cuff Placket, Private Eye

Cuff Placket, Private Eye is a sewing related 1930s style detective story written by Allegra.  If you’re new here, be sure to read Chapter 1 & Chapter 2 & Chapter 3 before you read today’s installment.

Cuff Placket, Private Eye

I woke up to a big headache, and an even bigger man looking into my face. It was the bearded guy that I had seen before, and in a few seconds I had found out that I was tied to a chair in the same room that I’d been knocked out.

Funny thing was, the bearded man didn’t at all match the maid’s description. His beard was brown, not black, and both of his eyes were residing in his head.

“What’re you doing snooping around in my room, copper?” He growled, sticking his face further out at me.

“I’m not a cop.”

“Who are you, then?”

I frowned.  Should I tell this guy anything?  He might be a kidnapper.  On the other hand, though, he didn’t match the description of the kidnapper, and if I didn’t answer him, he might throw me into the river.

“My name is Cuff Placket.” I answered. “I’m a Private Eye.”

The man sat down on the bed and continued to regard me with suspicion.

“What were you doing in my room?” he asked again.

I sighed. “I received an anonymous tip that a kidnapper might be in this vicinity.”

To my great surprise, the man threw back his head and laughed until his eyes filled with tears.

“What’s so funny??” I asked, my face heating up.  I’m used to being feared.  Well, maybe not feared, but at least avoided.  I’m certainly not used to being laughed at.

He finished chuckling, wiped his eyes, and then stood up in front of me.

“I’m gonna guess you got this ‘anonymous’ tip from a maid at a hotel, right?”

My brows furrowed. How did he know?

“And I’m gonna guess,” he continued, “That her name was Freda.”

“How do you know this?” I asked, astounded.

“Freda is my niece.”  He paced in front of the door.  “In the last ten days I’ve had to deal with people coming here who are asking me to run for mayor, people who want to put me in an insane asylum, and now you, all because Freda is a pathological liar.”

My head reeled. “How do you know she is?”

He went behind me and began to untie the rope I was tied with.
“Trust me, Mister. I helped raise Freda, and she will lie about everything. Everything.”

He finished untying me, and I flexed my hands, letting the blood go back into them.

“Sorry about coshing you.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to do it so hard.”

“It’s fine.” I said. “Why do you live here?”

He frowned and stared at the floor. Then he mumbled something under his breath.


“I said I’m a writer.”

I grimaced at him. “What does that have anything to do with living here?”

He looked askance at me.  “Have you seen what they pay writers??  I write fiction for newspapers, and once in a while, some newspaper will say, ‘oh, here, we’ll print your story’.  Even less often they’ll pay me.”

I picked my fedora up off of the floor and dusted it off. “Why don’t you get a different job?”

“I like to write.” His tone was like a stubborn little kid’s.

I shrugged. Not my problem.

“I’ll be going then,” I said. “Here’s my card if you ever need a Private Eye.”

I handed him a card from the pocket of my trench coat, and exited the dirty house.

Back at my small office, I pulled down the brim of my hat, put my feet up on my desk, and considered.  Now it was back to square one, and I had exhausted all my clues.

It was time to talk to the family.

Published by skirtfixation

Audrey, a mom of 9, sews and blogs at Skirt Fixation, your home for everything skirt related! There's lots of other sewing goodness too...after all can't leave the boys out of sewing adventures! She also designs and sells pattern through Project Run & Play.

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