Satan's Bones

Have you ever had the feeling that an invitation to dinner suggested more than sharing food and a few laughs? That’s the feeling I had when my friend Bob Hawkins suggested we get together for a private dinner at a remote diner on the fringe of Piccadilly. Behind his congenial invitation, I could sense an air of mysticism.  I’m sure you remember Piccadilly, the place where respectable individuals fear to tread and where men are reluctant to take their wives.

Bob tried to convey that it was just a friendly spot, maybe a little off the beaten path, with a unique flavor of quaintness. I couldn’t help but wonder however. The secrecy, the location, and the emergency invitation had an odor to them that raised my curiosity. In fact, the entire situation reeked of suspense and intrigue. Even for a seasoned private investigator, I had reservations about what to expect at any time. It draws heavily on your nerves when your pulse beats faster than the second hand of your “Timex” and you are always on guard for who knows what.

Here is how it began. It was two in the afternoon when the phone rang. Mrs. Twombly popped her head into my office, just as my eyelids were getting heavy and I was about to surrender to an afternoon nap, to announce, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Stanton, but Mr. Hawkins said it is important he talk to you immediately. Are you available?”

In my stupor, without fully understanding what she had asked, I said, “Of course, Mrs. Twombly. Who’s calling and what’s it about?”

“Mr. Stanton, I said it was Mr. Hawkins, and he said it is extremely important. He did stress the point that he wanted to talk to you alone.”

“OK, Mrs. Twombly, put him through. Oh, and if you are insistent on listening in, you better take notes. And please close off the voice box end of your phone, just in case you should sneeze during our conversation.”

“Mr. Stanton, you certainly spoil all my fun. Keep it up and I’ll tell your partner, Ms. Hawkins, that you are involved in an earthshaking case and she is not involved. Then you’ll have hell to pay! So you better allow me to listen in and avoid an international disaster here in our office.”

Little did I realize at the time that Bob’s afternoon phone call would become the background for a weird investigation case that would drop me into an ocean of perplexing fear of the unknown. A case now marked “Satan’s Bones” in our office files, and I must honestly admit it leaves me somewhat hesitant to tell you how it scared the hell out of me.

Like a good friend, never questioning the where, the what for, or the ultimate why the hell here, I met Bob at 8:30 p.m. at the restaurant. The name on the decrepit neon marquee sign read, “Ye Picca-Deli.” Neither the name of the deli nor the fact that I finally had some of the best lamb chops I’ve ever had in London is relevant to this scary story. But, what is relevant is the tenseness Bob displayed throughout our dinner as he cautiously tried to avoid the real purpose of his invitation.

While relishing the magnificence of my surprising culinary masterpiece, and making use of the free toothpicks, I knew it was time to confront my host with the ultimate question. “Bob, I know you didn’t invite me here to this out-of-the-way place just to taste English cooking, so why are you hesitating? Tell me what’s on your mind. Am I to assume you have a case for me to look into, or are you looking to place another fictitious name on your expense account? Come on, buddy,