The Case of the Murdered Vowel

'Twas a sultry summer's eve when she sauntered through the workplace door. Gams that went on for days, curves that could make a fella forget who he was. She was trouble wrapped up—a package too sexy to refuse.

"You Marlowe?" Her husky tone could send tremors down a guy's back.

"That's what the door says, doll. What can be done for ya?"

She pulled out a smoke, struck a match. As she took a long drag, her emerald eyes locked on. "They offed a letter, see? Not just any letter. A vowel. One of the most used of the whole darn alphabet."

Marlowe leaned back and adjusted the fedora. "A vowel, huh? What one ya mean?"

"Can't say. That's part of the problem. But comes after 'H' and before 'J.' You catch my flow."

Marlowe exhaled softly, "Hmm, that's a tough break, sweetheart. Any leads?"

She shook her head, golden curls bounce. "Not a one. That's why you're needed, Marlowe. You're the best gumshoe around town."

Marlowe stood up, grabbed the coat. "Okay, doll. Let's start at the scene of the murder. Where'd they locate the poor letter?"

"Down at the docks. Warehouse Ten. Not pretty."

They hopped onto the jalopy and tore through water-soaked streets. The harbor loomed ahead, a mass of shadows and secrets. Warehouse Ten stood mute, a huge beast of corrugated metal and broken dreams.

The place was a mess. Pen blots splattered everywhere. Torn pages scattered on the floor. And there—the center of all—lay an empty space where the presumed deceased should've been.

"Well, well," Marlowe muttered and kneeled down. "Seems someone had a grudge for our alphabet buddy.”

The dame's words quavered. "Who would do such a dastardly deed, Marlowe?"

Marlowe stood, brushed off the slacks. "That's what we're gonna uncover, toots. For starters, we need to round up the usual suspects."

"And who could those be?"

Marlowe checked them off on both hands. "The other vowels, for starters. They've always been a jealous bunch. Then there's 'Y' – wears two hats, that one. And let's not forget about 'J' and 'K'. Our deceased stood between 'em."

They left the warehouse, the stench of foul play stuck to the clothes. Next, stop number one: The Vowel Club, a seedy dump where A, E, O, and U hung out.

The Vowel Club loomed ahead. A neon-colored dump, sleaze oozed from every pore. Pea soup smoke, punctuated by the clack of pool balls and the drone of a cranky jukebox. Shady characters lurked everywhere, faces under large hats and upturned collars. The bar, gluey from dumped hooch, stretched long and dark. A row of hunched vulture shapes perched on stools.

The sort of dump where secrets festered and trouble brewed.

As they walked through, all eyes turned towards them.

"Well, well," drawled A, a smug sneer on her face. "The old washup Marlowe and some broad."

"Button up, A," Marlowe growled. "We're here on a case. Where were you when the sun went down?"

E squeaked, "We was all here, weren't we boys?" The others nodded, but an element reeked odorous.

"Yeah?" Marlowe pressed. "And you got any letters to back that up?"

O, always the nervous type, started to sweat. "L-lots of letters saw us. Correct, U?"

U, cool as a cucumber, just shrugged. "Sure, you can say so."

Marlowe turned to the dame. "What do you reckon, doll?"

She leaned close, her perfume messed up Marlowe's head. "All BS, Marlowe. Can feel my bones ache."

As they left the club, a shadowy shape darted down the alley. "Hold up," Marlowe told the dame, hand on the heater. "We got company."

They chase after the strange shape, footsteps echo off damp concrete walls. They rounded a corner and found themselves face-to-face by Y, the two-faced letter that couldn't settle on—a vowel or a consonant?

"Easy there, Marlowe," Y grumbled, hands held up. "Just wanted a secret word, that’s all."

"Ok, talk Y. What do you know about our murdered vowel?"

Y glanced around nervously. "Look, can't say much. But word on the street—wasn't just any old murder. Someone on the team at fault."

The dame gasped. "From your own ranks? You mean..."

"That's correct, sweetheart," Y nodded. "One of the other letters done the deed. But that's all Y knows, Y swears."

Marlowe thanked Y for the lead and sent Y away. The plot was as sour as day-old coffee.

"What now, Marlowe?" the dame asked, glued to Marlowe’s arm.

"Now we drop by J and K. They're adjacent dwellers to our presumed casualty. Maybe they saw or heard a clue."

They found J at the usual haunt, a jazz club called The Dot. He was on stage, sax notes belted out from an old horn.

When he completed the set, Marlowe cornered J at the bar. "Okay, J, What's the scoop on the murdered vowel?’

J took a long pull of bourbon. "Man, don't know beans. Here all along, ask anybody."

"Yeah? And what about your pal K?"

J's eyes narrowed. "K’s not my pal. That cat's been real strange lately. Sneaks here and there, secret talks to them consonants. Wanna ask me, he's the one you should be after."

Marlowe thanked J for the rundown and headed out the door. The dame stood there, a fraught look on her face.

"What's wrong, doll?"

She handed over a crumpled note. "Someone put the note on my purse as you talked to J."

Marlowe unfolded the note and read: "Back off, Marlowe, or you'll be merged to your vowel buddy—up there—the great alphabet skyward."

"We must be close, sweetheart. Someone's nervous."

The next stop was K's place, a rundown apartment on the seedy sector of the tracks. Marlowe knocked on the door, but no answer.

"Stand back, doll," before a boot or two opened the door.

"He's done a runner," the dame yelled, a nod towards a half-empty glass. "And wasted no energy. Fast.”

The place was a mess, but no trace of K. Papers everywhere. Mostly gobbleygook, but one note caught the eye.

"The plan has begun. Once we purge the vowels, we consonants rule the language. No more back seat to those snobby vowels."

"Well, well," muttered Marlowe. "We've stumbled onto a full-blown consonant Cabal."

Just then, Marlowe heard a sound from the closet. He drew the gun and approached slowly. Yanked open the door to see... K, bound and gagged.

Marlowe freed K pronto. "What happened, K? Who bound and gagged you?"

K gasped for a breath. "Who? Q that’s who!! He's the conductor of chaos. Screamed he was done—no more U around constantly. Wanted to take out all the vowels, make a world where consonants rule supreme."

"Where's Q now?" the dame asked.

"At the old press factory—called a rally for all the other consonants. They plan to change every book, every surface, every scrap of letters to exclude the vowels. You gotta stop 'em, Marlowe!"

Marlowe nodded sagely "Thanks, K. You stay here and lay low. Gonna get ugly."

Marlowe raced to the old factory, the dame adamant about her presence there.

The old press factory stood as a mausoleum to dead trees. Broken glass—toothless maws are all that's left. Shadows danced on walls covered from decades of dyes and broken dreams. The musty smell of old paper and the tang of fresh schemes. Rusty presses loomed, monsters ready to awaken and churn out Q's scary new world order.

The consonants, an unruly mob armed to the teeth, swarmed around Q's rough-and-ready stage. A tower of dusty crates creaked darkly under Q's bulk. The scene pulsed from the suspense, a powder keg ready to blow at the merest spark.

Q cranked the bullhorn.

"Too long have we been under the shadow of the vowels!" Q bellowed. "Welcome to the era of a new world order, a consonant order!"

The crowd cheered, but Marlowe spotted a few uneasy faces among the mob.

Marlowe stepped forward, gun drawn. "Party's over, Q. You're down for many years."

Q sneered. "Marlowe. Should've known you'd show up. Boys, take care of our unwanted guests."

A group of rough and tough consonants started to surround them. The outcome looked bleak.

But then, someone shouted. "Stop!"

Good old A, followed by the other vowels.

"We heard what came about," A stuttered. "Came to lend a hand. After all, language needs both vowels and consonants. We're all one."

The consonants took a moment—unsure.

Marlowe took advantage of the moment. "He's correct, folks. Q's told you untruths. Analyze that. How would you read sans vowels? How would you speak? We need each other."

One by one, the consonants lowered the weapons. Q, saw the plan crumble and he made a dash for the backdoor.

"Oh no you don't," yelled Marlowe, then pushed Q to the ground.

As the cops led Q away, the dame planted a smack on Marlowe’s cheek. "You won, Marlowe. You solved the case."

Marlowe shrugged modestly. "Just another day's work, doll. Now, how about we go get our poor not deceased vowel? Bet he's holed up somewhere, scared senseless."

And so, order was restored to the alphabet. Vowels and consonants learned to work together, to create words and sentences—full harmony of language.

As for Marlowe? Well, there's always another case just around the corner. But that's another story.

The End.