The case of the missing lady

Press, 27 December 1979, Page 15

The case of the missing lady

It was one of those sultry city nights you read about, good weather forknocking back a couple shots of Old Sneeze and putting the feet up on the desk.

This private investigation business gets real slow sometimes. About all you can do is send the secretary home early and sit back to watch the neon light reflections on the girlie calendar. Marco s the name, Jake Marco. Some folks call me Mickey. You can call me Helen.

Anway, just as I was sinking back in a boozy revery this figure appeared in the dark doorway. I say appeared; loomed would be a better word.

She was big, this broad, and brassy. Her mouth was a red. luscious smear under a bouffant bush of red hair. She was a stunning number, even for someone in my line of business.

This lady, woman, call her what you will, had quite a story to tell.

Her little sister, Cricket, was missing. The girl was well known in British ci'les, it seems. She was

quite a sport, pure as the driven snow (she wore white) and had a big following. Something like the Oakland Athletics or Buffalo Bills, if you get my meaning, but more civilised. She was known as the Great British Sleeping Potion, according to my American sporting dictionary. This Cricket bird had gone on for years, never getting old. never tiring, but something had come over her lately. Her sister said she had started stepping out with fella by the name of Packer one of those guys who flash money and expect the world to beat a path to his doorstep. The world usually does. Cricket had been taken in by this big palooka's line, and suddenly she just up and disappears. No word, no letters, nothing. Then someone looking vaguely like her showed up in the country leagues around L.A., pitching for a team they called the California Crickets. This new girl hurled a pretty good ball, but' she just wasn’t the same, her sister said. She was too fast — frenetic, even —

showed too much pizzazz. Not like the old Cricket at all. “You must find my sister,” cried the redhead, staining my new shirt. She was on my lap by this time. I don’t know whether I said it before, but I’m a softie for a dame who cries. And being an old colonial boy with a lot of respect for the Queen and all. I took the case. “Anything for the British Empire.” I said, patting curves that would make the Pope renounce religion. That’s how I got down here to New Zealand, hanging around the edge of Cricket pitches (named after the lost lady), keeping an eye out for any clue. It’s not the most stimulating case I ever had, but the money’s good and I might just come up with something any day now. Besides, there’s a big redheaded woman waiting for me over at the hotel. The nights are much less boring than the days, and I’m a patient man. Come home, Cricket, wherever you are. But no need to be too quick about