The Mystery of the Stolen Parcel

Mr. Jones heard his familiar doorbell ring at six o’clock in the morning. He went  into the hall and opened the door, only to feel cold steel pushed into his  forehead. 

“Who are you, a-a-and what do y-y-you want?” Mr. Jones stuttered, shaking all  over. Then came a blood-curdling scream, the sound of three gunshots and the  sickening thud of a lifeless body falling to the floor. 

Three hours later, at around nine o’clock, the police arrived at the crime scene.  Along with the police was one of their best detectives-Mike Steward. Mike and a  policeman were in a deep conversation. 

“Did you find out what was missing?” Mike asked. 

“Yes, only a small yellow parcel that they got yesterday, his wife said so. No  money.” 

“Any leads?” 

“Nope. The culprit must have been wearing gloves, because there aren’t any  fingerprints. Must be experienced.” 

Mike thanked the policeman and briskly walked away in his yellow suit and navy blue beret; his eyebrows were furrowed in thought. He went into the CCTV  surveillance room and slowly rewinded the footage to the murder. The man was 

covered in black, so it was a dead end trying to identify him. However, when Mike  saw the figure jump over the dead body of Mr. Jones and take the tiny yellow  parcel, he noticed a label on the thief’s black hoodie. He paused the footage, and  zoomed into the discreet black hood. The label read “DD’s Clothes”. 

“Looks like we have our first lead,” Mike whispered to himself with a smile. 

As Mike sat on the backseat of his car, he grabbed his laptop and searched for it on Google. There was only one in town. He showed his driver the location,  anxious to get there quick. However, unlike his mental image of it, he then found  himself standing outside a worn-down, unkept, tiny shop ten minutes later. Mike  cautiously opened the rusted door and wrinkled his nose at the abominable smell of garbage and the stench of half-eaten cheese burgers. He then deduced  (without any obvious effort), that the place obviously was not one with  “booming” business. He walked over to the discolored counter and was  confronted by a fat, arrogant-looking man. 

“What d’you want, chump?” the man asked in a gruff voice. 

Mike opened his mouth to begin. 

“I-” 

“OK, listen man, you can tell the Marquis brothers that they’ll get their money  when I get a little more business! That 2 million won’t just pop out of the air, will  it?” 

“Excuse me?”  

“Oh, you aren’t here to collect the money that I owe?” the shopkeeper asked,  baffled by this. 

“I am here on a confidential detective matter, not to waste time on money debts.  For I am a POLICEMAN!” Mike replied sternly. 

“Geez, okay!! What do you want to know?” 

“Did you have a customer recently who purchased a black hoodie?” “Well yeah, he was our ONLY customer. For the last 2 weeks. 

“Yes, I’m not very surprised. Mike replied, as he inspected the shop.

Do you happen to know his name?” 

“Oh yeah! His name was…uhh… John Mckowski. Said so on the credit card. OY!  Where are you going? 

But Mike was already out of the door. 

As soon as he got back to the police station, he typed the name into the “Police  Crime Database”, for he had a hunch that a skilled thief like that would be on the  “wanted list”. And almost immediately the name popped up in block letters- “JOHN MCKOWSKI”. Mike managed to track his last whereabouts. It had a  detailed description of the house. 

“43 Park Street. Time to pay Mr. Mckowski a visit.” Mike said, a glint of triumph  in his deep green eyes. 

Mike took his motorbike and drove to the address, which fitted the description.  He parked his bike where nobody could see it and slowly entered the desolate  house. There was a hall, with one room on each side. There was a table in front of  him, and on it was the yellow parcel. But as soon as he reached out to grab it, he  felt a plank hit the back of his head. Everything went black. 

When Mike regained consciousness, he found himself tied up and in front of him  was Mckowski, an evil grin on his face. 

“Ahh, Mike Steward, the famous detective. Looks like you’re ‘tied up’, eh?” And  John laughed mockingly. 

“Enough with the puns, Mckowski. What is your business with the parcel?” 

“That PARCEL contains nuclear satellite activation codes. With these, I can  practically destroy the world!” John smirked. 

“But then it was accidentally mailed to Mr. Jones, correct?” 

“Yeah! My, my, Steward! You have done your homework!” 

All of a sudden, Mike started laughing. 

Mckowski, startled by this sudden humorous outburst, was utterly confused. “Why are you laughing? You’re about to die!”

“Tell me Mckowski, have you ever heard of backup?” 

“Backup! Whaa…”  

But John could not finish, for the police rushed in and knocked him down. 

Mike wiped his forehead that glistened with sweat. His friend, Jacob the police  man, remarked to him.  

“That was a close call, bub.”  

“It sure was.” Mike chuckled and sighed with relief.  

As Mike and the commissioner went back to the station, the commissioner  thanked the detective. 

“Thank you, Mike! Without you, we would all be dead by now!” 

“Glad to help, commissioner. It was an easy case.” Mike replied with an air of  dignified modesty. 

The commissioner chuckled at Mike’s attempt to be humble. 

“But how did you manage to get backup there in time?” 

“Easy. I had a walkie-talkie hidden in my pocket, and there was another one with  my friends at the police station. Jacob even recorded the whole conversation as  evidence for court. That is, if McKowski is even having a defence.” 

“Well, looks like we won’t be having any trouble from Mckowski any time soon!”

By Yash Nanayakkara