The jigsaw puzzle of my memory was just about complete thanks to the Bisodiumitis, but a few pieces were still missing; everything that had happened in the hours before my awakening in the bathroom stall was nothing more than a blur. Still, if Siegel had played a role in Mrs. Sternwood's kidnapping, I knew of one particular place that would be worth checking out.

I stood at the trunk of the Mercedes parked in front of Joe's Bar, car key in hand. Was my theory on Mrs. Sternwood correct? Only one way to find out. I unlocked the trunk, the door rising into the air with a creak; there she was before me, the broadest broad in the world, John Sternwood's wife. Her hands and legs were all tied up, and I probably would've mistaken her for dead if it weren't for the rhythmic rising and falling of her chest.

I took the cloth gag out of her mouth and clapped my hands by her head. No response. "Anybody in there?" I asked, placing my mouth up to her ear. Nothing. She was out cold. The kidnappers had probably drugged her up before sticking her in the trunk. But of course, Ace has a solution for everything. Thanks to the wonders of Sodium Pentothal, she stopped making with the silent treatment.

"Please take me home," she muttered after a dose of truth serum, speaking in her tranquilizer-induced beauty sleep. "Please take me to 626 Auburn Road."

That was all I got out of Mrs. Sternwood, and that was all I needed. I would've liked to remove her from the trunk, but there wasn't a man alive, myself included, who could carry an object of that mass without somebody else's help. Color me cynical, but I think that asking for assistance in lifting a gargantuan, hog-tied broad - and an unconscious one at that - would evoke more than a bit of suspicion. One look at Madame Sternwood would probably result in a tip-off to the cops, so I simply closed the trunk and walked away with her still inside. In my defense, she seemed pretty happy the way she was. I'd probably be too if I were doped up with sedatives.

I considered driving the Mercedes seeing how I wasn't feeling so disoriented anymore, but I shuddered to think what would happen if the cops pulled me over and discovered what I was lugging around in the trunk. Besides, my chariot awaited; the taxi was just as capable of bringing me to the Sternwood Home.

Actually, "Sternwood Mansion" was a more appropriate way to describe it. Boy, those Sternwoods had one hell of an estate. A path that must've been a mile long stretched from the sidewalk to the front door of their million-dollar manor, but it just didn't feel right to head down there without doing a bit of snooping first. Opening the mailbox sitting atop a post driven into their lawn, I was greeted with a strange note composed entirely of newspaper cutouts.

"Mr. Sternwood,

Your wife is in our possession. Any attempt to contact the police will result in her untimely demise. If you value her life, place $20,000 in a suitcase and be standing at the corner of Peoria and Elm at midnight tomorrow. You will receive further instructions then."

Midnight…what had I been doing around midnight? Everything from that time frame was so damn hazy. I didn't think I would ever get that chunk of memory back. All I could do was hope for something that would fill in the details for me.

I stuck the ransom letter in my pocket and made my way to the Sternwood residence. That mansion was huge, all right. Walking down the nigh-endless pathway, I could feel it looming over me like a distant mountain on the horizon; must've taken me half an hour just to reach the front door.

Everything was unnecessarily fancy at Sternwood Manor; instead of just knocking on the carved oak door with your fist, you were supposed to use this brass lion's head with a knocker attached to it. I'll never understand the rich.

I gave a few knocks (With my fist, mind you, not the knocker. Take that, establishment!) and the muffled clack-clack of footsteps on tile could be heard from behind the door as it slowly creaked open. Standing tall before me was a tuxedo-clad butler, his hands clasped behind his back as he cast a scrutinizing gaze upon me. That guy was so stiff you'd think he bathed in starch.

"I have been given strict orders not to allow unannounced callers into the house," the butler informed me in a dry tone. "I daresay the master would be less than pleased if I let just anyone off the street wander into his home, especially while he is asleep. Good night, sir."

And with that, the butler shut the door in my face before I could reply. Where have the manners gone in this day and age? I knocked again; the door reopened.

"I believe I have already explained…"

Ol' Jeeves never finished that thought, for a right hook to the temple sent him tumbling to the ground. I really do miss being a boxer, you know. Sidestepping his unconscious body, I found myself standing in the marble-tiled vestibule of the opulent mansion. Sternwood sure knew how to live the good life. I could see why the diary writer wanted him to be her sugar daddy.

I climbed the spiral staircase leading to the second floor, listening to the sound of my footsteps echo throughout the cavernous room, and quietly opened the door at the top of the stairs. Tiptoeing my way into the master bedroom, I immediately recognized the folks sleeping in the comfortable-looking bed; the woman was Marsha Vickers, Siegel's secretary. I remembered seeing her occasionally at Joe's Bar back in my gambling days. The man was John Sternwood, the same guy who'd approached me after his wife was kidnapped.

The scent of cheap perfume emanated from Vicker's direction, making the bedroom smell exactly like the bungalow as well as the secretary's room at the bar. It looked like Miss Vickers was the mysterious writer of the diary. Apparently, she'd finally realized her dream of running away with Sternwood.

I gingerly opened the nightstand on Sternwood's side of the bed, finding a letter and a notepad. I started my latest round of snooping by looking over the letter.

"Mr. Sternwood,

This is my final warning. If you don't keep your hands off Vickers once and for all, I'll make sure your wife knows all about your little trysts. Perhaps I'll notify the press as well. Somehow, I don't think your corporation will benefit if word gets out about how you spend your free time. Vickers belongs to me: if you really want her that badly, you can pay for her. She'll cost you 20 grand. I expect an answer by tomorrow.

-Joe Siegel"

Vickers sure wasn't kidding when she wrote in her diary about what a jealous bastard Siegel was. I wasn't the only one with good reason to hate his guts.

Sternwood's notepad was blank, but I could see a few indentations left from when someone had written on the now-missing sheet above it. They were too light to read, but naturally, I was able to work around that problem; I still had the pencil I took from Siegel's desk. Shading in the indentations, I was able to make out the text. It looked like some sort of timetable.

"Completed: Send fake Siegel letter to Ace, have Marsha answer Ace's telephone call and give him instructions.

12:00 am - Make sure the Mrs. is bound, gagged, and unconscious. Wait by bar door for Ace. Knock him out, take him to back room, and follow drug procedure. Take his gun.

1:00 am - Wait for Siegel's arrival. When he reaches office, shoot him with Ace's gun. Put Ace in stall. Put gun back in holster, and put Siegel's possessions - lighter, wallet, etc. - on Ace. Make sure Ace's prints are on gun and Siegel's blood is on Ace's hand.

1:30 am - Put the Mrs. into the trunk of Siegel's car. Put kidnapping material in dashboard. Lock up and leave. Pick up hit man at meeting point. Bring him to Ace's office (use duplicate key). Plant copy of fake Siegel letter in Ace's desk. Tell hit man to wait in office approx. 6 hours, in case Ace wizens up. Upon returning home, plant fake ransom note in mailbox."

So it was a frame-up! Vickers must have told John Sternwood all about my debts, and Sternwood went ahead and used me in a plan to get rid of both Siegel and his wife! I was tempted to shoot both of them right then and there, but my revolver was out of bullets. It was for the best, anyhow; murder isn't the smartest way to get revenge. Besides, everything I needed to even the score with those two scumbags was already in my possession.

It was only a matter of time before the flatfoots came looking for me, what with the history between the late Joe Siegel and myself. I figured I'd better find the police before the police found me, and I could only imagine that the cops would be interested to learn what I had discovered. I remembered seeing a police station not too far from Joe's Bar; it was time to take one last trip in the taxi.

I told the cabbie to take me back to Peoria Street. You know, I'd actually grown kinda attached to him. I guess you could say he was the closest thing I had to a friend in what was undeniably the worst experience of my life. Without him ferrying me around Chicago, I would've been screwed the moment I stepped out onto the streets.

We soon pulled up near the newsstand on Peoria Street, which happened to be where I'd flagged down the taxi in the first place. I had finally come full circle.

"Well, this is my last stop," I informed the cabbie as I slid some quarters into the fare slot for the final time. "Thanks for your help."

"Hell, I should be thanking you, mac! Most night shifts, I'm lucky if I get half of what you've paid. If you don't mind me asking, what was keepin' you so busy?"

"You read the papers?"

"Yeah."

"Keep your eyes peeled," I said, stepping out of the cab. "Be on the lookout for any articles that mention someone called 'Ace Harding.' You'll learn everything soon enough, my friend."

"Whatever you say, mac," replied the cabbie before driving off into the night. I was really gonna miss him.

There were only a few things I'd need to take care of before paying a visit to the flatfoots. First, I went back to the bathroom at Joe's Bar and washed the dried blood off my hands. When you're a suspect in a murder case, you've gotta make yourself presentable.

Second, I made my way to the bar's cellar. I remembered the hidden shaft that lead to the sewers; before my gambling fiasco made us mortal enemies, Siegel had told me all about it. He said he built the shaft as a way to escape if the cops ever raided his casino. Siegel may have been a bastard, but I have to admit he was a clever one, too.

I climbed down the shaft ladder and dropped my revolver into the sewers, watching it splash into the murky water and disappear beneath the surface. I may have had plenty of evidence against Sternwood and Vickers, but frankly, I've never placed much trust in the coppers. If they got a hold of the murder weapon - covered with my prints, no less - I couldn't help but think that they'd try to pin the crime on me.

The Chicago sewer system is not a pretty place, by the way, nor is it pretty-smelling. I had no intention of taking in those noxious fumes any longer than I needed to, so I got out of there as fast as possible. I think my eyesight must be going south, 'cause as I was climbing back up the ladder, I could've sworn I saw something that looked like an alligator swimming in the sewer water. I don't know what it was, but it couldn't have really been a 'gator. I mean, come on, who ever heard of alligators living in the sewer? I don't know why people buy into that urban legend crap.

Well, I had done everything I could. The only thing left now was to head to the police station. I walked down Peoria Street, trying to stay calm as my heart pounded away like a jackhammer. What was going to happen to me? Would the evidence I'd found be enough to get me off the hook? My train of thought was suddenly disrupted as a woman stepped out in front of me: a woman that I knew all too well. That short red dress, the painted face…I'd recognize her anywhere. Why did it have to be her? It could've been any woman in the world! Why did it have to be Sugar?

"Ace, baby, don't give me that look! I know it's been awhile, but surely you haven't forgotten about your sweet little Sugar!"

I hadn't forgotten about her, all right. There's no way in hell I could ever forget about, ahem, "sweet" little Sugar. She was my ex-girlfriend, extra emphasis on the "ex." We had split long before I became a private eye, but the fact that I once took on the case of a guy she was blackmailing and uncovered the evidence needed to put her behind bars wasn't exactly setting the stage for a reconciliation between us.

"I just got out of prison…and I wouldn't have been there in the first place if it weren't for you. But, my dear, it's so good to see you again," she remarked bitterly, narrowing her eyes. "I was hoping I'd run into that darling Joe Siegel, too."

You can add Sugar to the ever-growing list of people who hated Siegel. Something happened between them a long time ago, though I don't know what. Never really bothered to ask. Sugar probably would've been thrilled to learn that Siegel had been plugged, but I decided against telling her. If I knew Sugar - and, unfortunately for me, I did - she always had something up her sleeve. If you don't stay on guard around her, the consequences can be disastrous.

"Since I couldn't find Siegel, I planted a little surprise for him under the hood of his car. Some pals of mine from prison taught me a thing or two about explosives. My only regret is that I can't be around to watch dear old Joe go up in flames when he starts that thing!"

Good thing I hadn't tried driving Siegel's car. I could see Sugar was just as psychotic as ever.

"I have a surprise for you too, Ace!" she exclaimed as she stuck her hand into her purse. Knowing Sugar, it wouldn't be safe to wait around and find out what this "surprise" was. A quick uppercut left her sprawled out along the sidewalk.

I bent down to look through the purse that lay on the concrete next to its unconscious owner; it held a cylinder of lipstick and a cheap-looking, fully loaded revolver. Somehow, I doubted that the lipstick was the "surprise" my ex had in mind for me. Oh Sugar, will you ever learn to let bygones be bygones?

With that taken care of, I was truly free to make my way to the police station. The coppers were certainly glad to see me when I showed up. And what happened from there? A long story. I eventually wound up in a courtroom, in the midst of the trial of the century. The evidence against me? Not much, just my history with Siegel. The evidence against Marsha Vickers and John Sternwood? Everything I had found throughout my investigation: chiefly, the diary, the timetable, and Siegel's letter to Sternwood.

My investigation had painted a pretty vivid picture of a Vickers-John Sternwood conspiracy to take out Siegel and Mrs. Sternwood, and frame the entire deal on me. Miss Vickers and her sugar daddy were grilled for hours on end in court. Following a brutal interrogation by my lawyer, Vickers finally broke down and revealed everything. John Sternwood and Marsha Vickers are now locked up in prison somewhere, each waiting their turn in the electric chair.

In case you're wondering, Mrs. Sternwood was indeed rescued from the trunk of the Mercedes. I made sure to let the cops know exactly where she was. It didn't take long for the wealthy soon-to-be-widow to get over her husband, by the way; if the rumors I've heard are true, her butler ain't just her butler anymore.

As for me, I got off scot-free. My gambling debt died with Siegel, and thanks to the free publicity from the trial, anyone in Chicago who's looking for a private eye immediately thinks "Ace Harding." Business at my office is booming. It was a hell of an ordeal to clear my name, but it certainly paid off in the end. Why, I even met that cabbie again! He had seen my name in the papers, and once the trial was over, he came straight to me. He said he was trying to catch the Peeping Tom that spied on his wife at night, and I gladly took on his case. Turned out the peeper was the cabbie's brother, who had apparently taken a fancy to the wife. You should've heard the exchange between the two brothers after I revealed the peeper's identity. I don't believe I've ever heard so many curses in such a short amount of time.

I'm no Aesop, but I guess you could say there's a moral to my story: never try to frame a guy for a crime he didn't commit. You just might be messing with someone who'll go to the ends of this earth to prove his innocence, someone who'll make sure you suffer for screwing with him. You just might be messing with someone like me.

They don't call me "Ace" for nothing.

-The End-