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“My name is Matt Inay, Mr. Tuff, but my friends call me Superfan because I love movies so much. I’ve heard that you’re great at solving mysteries.”
I liked Mr. Inay immediately, although I haven’t solved many mysteries. With some, I’ve had help from Amanda Friend, my first client, or Carl Brown, a former student, and with many pure luck. Mr. Inay was about sixty, of average height and build, gray-haired and neatly dressed. He fitted my qualifications for the ideal client.
“You’ve heard of John de Mille?”
“Of course. A director of murder mysteries who, at his height, rivalled Alfred Hitchcock. His greatest film was probably Murder Most Foul, which is very hard to find.”
“I know. But I managed to get a videotape of it and tomorrow night I’ll show it to a few friends, and I’d like you to come. I’ve bet each of them that you can identify the killer before the sleuth in the movie does. Will you come?”
It was an unusual challenge, but after a moment’s thought I decided to accept. Mr. Inay gave me his address and telephone number. “I’ll see you at seven.”
When I arrived at Mr. Inay’s house, three men and three women were sipping post-prandial drinks. He introduced me to them and vice versa and of course I immediately forgot their names. A large television set faced a number of chairs. Matt reminded his guests of the bet, twenty dollars per person, so that he stood to win – or lose – a hundred and twenty dollars, less my fee … if he won. I was not as nervous as I had expected to be.
People took their seats and Matt turned off the lights and turned on the TV. As is usual with old films, it began with the credits, the usual cast: Mary Abel, Humphrey Greenstreet, Peter Bogart, Sydney Lorre, Walter Astor, and of course the director, John de Mille.
I watched carefully for details that could be significant clues as suspicion shifted from character to character. A love interest seemed to be developing between the detective and the female suspect. There was no humour, however, and in contrast to modern movies, no sensational special effects. Finally, as the detective was about to announce the name of the killer, Matt paused the TV. “Mr. Tuff?”
I named the suspect. Matt turned the TV back on and the detective echoed the name. Several people applauded, even though they had just lost money. They paid their bets, however, and Matt paid my fee.
The next morning in the office, as Hank and I drank our scalding coffee, I thanked him for inviting me to dinner three nights before. “I really enjoyed it.”
“And I hope you liked the movie.”
“Very much,” I said, but how did you ever get a video of Murder Most Foul? They’re very hard to find.” And I handed him half of Mr. Inay’s fee.
