Death at the Pin Factory: Part I

A Smith and Marx Adventure

Below is the first part of a story which I plan to serialize over the next few weeks. It recasts Karl Marx and Adam Smith, those towering—and generally understood to be opposing—figures of social and economic thought, as contemporaries, an unlikely duo who have joined forces to solve murders in 19th century London. It’s Holmes and Watson meets modern economic theory, with a spicy murder thrown in.

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Upon reviewing the eighty or so cases in which I have borne close witness to the methods, habits, and eccentricities of my roommate and friend, the famous detective Karl Marx, I was astonished to learn that in nearly every case, Karl found a capitalist behind the crime. The victim’s roommate could be caught with blood on his nightshirt, a knife in his hand, and shouting, “That’s the last time he’ll ever leave the lid off the toothpaste,” and Karl would point the blame on the nearest merchant, usually one that had refused to lend him a fiver. Still, by the law of averages, there must occur from time to time a case where the capitalist is not the culprit, right? I refer you to the shocking case I have titled:

DEATH AT THE PIN FACTORY

It was in early April 1883 when I woke one morning to find Karl slumped in a chair, fully dressed in his clothes of the day before, reeking of indulgence. He often came home in the early hours of the morning after a night of heavy theorizing with the Trier Tavern Club drinking society and often did not make it past the sitting room of our apartment on Baker Street. I waited as long as I could, to 7:15, then nudged him awake with my foot.

“Karl, I am sorry to wake you. But it’s time to get up.”

Karl stirred.

“Ten more minutes.”

“There’s a young lady outside. When a young lady comes knocking on the door in the early hours of the morning, I assume you had something to do with her the night before.”

Karl wiped the sleep from his eyes, then turned his head for a glance out the window.

“I don’t recognize her. Let’s pretend we’re not home.”

“It might not do much good.”

“Why?”

“She’s waving at you.”

Karl looked again.

“So she is. Let her enter. I will ready myself.”

I much admired Karl’s devotion to his art—his rapid-fire pontifications, his homespun hypotheses, his theories of alienation that ironically drew much attention—but I admired even more his ability to shake off an indulgent evening without so much as a reddish eye. In mere moments he presented himself in the sitting room wearing a pressed shirt and pants, a neatly trimmed beard, and a warmly engaging smile, ready to receive the young lady. She entered, her face a grim contrast to Karl’s cheerful demeanor.

“Good morning, my dear young lady,” said Karl, with no sign of the grogginess that had been with him moments before. “My name is Karl Marx. This is my good friend and amateur magician Adam Smith. Ask him sometime about his ‘Invisible Hand’ trick. But please, I observe you are shivering. No doubt you have within the last hours undergone some emotional trauma which has manifested itself in your body?”

“It’s early morning in April and I’m wearing a thin blouse,” she said.

“So you are. I have keenly observed this fact.”

Karl patted down his pockets and did not find what he was looking for. I handed him the small notebook in which he recorded his conclusions and, later, his facts.

“But you are correct,” admitted the young lady. “I have experienced a trauma.” She rubbed her arms as if to warm herself against the cold of a painful memory, or possibly just the cold. Karl studied her from toe to head, in his usual contrarian spirit.

“Do not fear. We are here to help you in whatever manner you require,” he said. “For instance, we have hot beverages. Would you like some coffee? Smith always brews a pot first thing.”

I shook my head. “Alas, we have no coffee beans,” I said.

“Oh, that’s right. The coffee bean shortage.”

“If only the government would stop—” I began.

“Stop interfering in the market. Yes, Smith. We know your feelings on the matter. Like a broken phonograph, this one,” said Karl, interrupting. “Now, young lady. I observe that you have come this morning by train.”

The lady’s eyes widened upon her face, indicating either amazement or motor dysfunction.

“You believe I have come by train?”

“It is not a mystery, my dear young lady. Your boots are splashed with mud. I have observed them. I once slipped in some mud trying to board a train. Therefore, you must have come by train. It is the only possibility.”

“That’s amazing,” she said. “Your powers of observation are truly incredible, Mr. Marx. I do have mud on my boots. Your conclusions are incorrect, though, as I had muddied them a few days ago when I was caught in the rain making deliveries. I pulled them on quickly this morning because I was in a desperate rush to get out of the house.”

“I see,” said Karl. “Please continue.”

“I am being hunted, Mr. Marx. I felt I must come to see you right away.”

I coughed at Karl. He acknowledged my cough and sighed.

“I must apologize, but upon taking on any new client, Smith insists I irritate them with market research.” Karl inhaled deeply and forced a smile to his lips. “How did you hear about us?” he asked. “Also, after our case is over, you may receive a brief survey.”

“I heard of you from my friend Friedrich to whom I have been making many deliveries as of late.”

“Friedrich, Friedrich,” said Karl, trying to place the name. “Elderly lady? Dutch?”

“No, a German man.”

“Ah, the General. Of course. I know him well.”

“I am very hopeful that you can help me. I have a good job and can pay you for your services. I am very much in need of your assistance.”

“Smith has a pricing sheet which he will review with you. But I find such discussions bourgeois. Let us put that aside. I will be happy to take your case. I am confident I can help you. And now, please, let us hear the facts. Do not omit any detail no matter how small.”

“It all began twenty years ago when I was born.”

Karl held up his hand.

“On second thought, why don’t you just give me the gist of it?”

“But that’s the problem! I don’t know what is important. I am terrorized by suspicions that are vague and imprecise. I hardly know where to begin. Part of me thinks I am just imagining things. I feel a great evil lurks all about me. I have heard, Mr. Marx, that you see evil everywhere, where others see nothing at all. And only you can advise me how I can save myself.”

“That is true. I, the great and exceedingly modest Karl Marx, have already solved the case. But please continue. I need to go through the motions so Smith has something to put in his books.”

I could tell from the lady’s smile she thought he was joking.

“My name is Helen LaBour. I work at Capitelli Pins, the pin factory on Brewer Street.”

“Ah, the LaBour family! I have always considered myself a friend of the LaBours. And I am familiar with Mr. Capitelli. No doubt he is the source of your trouble.”

“I feel as though I am being followed by my stepfather, Dr. Grimesby Felix. The Felixes were at one time one of the richest families in England. They had estates as far as China in the west and America in the east, or possibly the other way around. But the heirs grew progressively wasteful, and complete ruin was brought upon the Felixes by ill-timed investments in tulip bulbs. After a few generations there was nothing left, save for a small commercial building, burdened by a heavy mortgage. The last of the Felixes, my stepfather, entered the medical profession despite an extremely poor understanding of anatomy.”

“How poor?”

“He once identified the elbow as ‘a type of macaroni.’”

Karl made a sharp, percussive sound with his mouth.

“Please continue.”

“Despite this, and starting with nothing more than a few barrels of brandy, he built a large medical practice, which succeeded wonderfully until his clients began to die off. And it is he who I fear now.

“When my stepfather had first started his medical practice he married my mother, Mrs. LaBour, who was the widow of Major General LaBour, a soldier who succumbed to gunshot wounds he’d suffered years earlier trying to get sent home. My sister Julia and I were twins and were only two years old at the time of my mother’s remarriage. My mother, Mrs. LaBour, had a considerable fortune—no less than a thousand pounds a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Felix, with a provision that a certain annual sum be allowed to each of me and my sister in the event of our marriage. Not long after the decline of my stepfather’s medical practice, my mother died when her hoop skirt caught a strong wind and she was swept out to sea.”

“That must have been a terrible blow,” I offered.

“Yes. For a time we lived well on the inheritance of my mother. But the debts of my stepfather began to catch up to him. He is a violent man, my stepfather. He began fighting with those around him, his lenders, his lawyers, even those he kept as friends nearby. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, landing him in the hands of the police until even the police began to fear him, such was his temper. He is a brute man of immense physical strength, and his anger is uncontrolled.

“Just yesterday he quarreled with a gang of Young Hegelians and sent each of them tumbling off a bridge, and it was all because of a minor religious dispute.”

“Hooligans?” said Karl.

“No, Hegelians.”

“I see. He was probably right to quarrel with them. Please go on.”

“My stepfather has no friends at all, save for a collection of exotic animals he keeps around him. They are his only true friends. A cheetah and baboon occupy his offices, performing light duties, and snakes and scorpions stand guard. Everyone is terrified.”

“Smith is afraid of snakes too.”

“No, it is my stepfather we fear. You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had much to fear in our lives. We kept to ourselves mostly. We secured jobs, the both of us, at Capitelli Pins, located in the building my stepfather owns, next to his medical office, which by this time had few remaining clients. We threw ourselves into our work. We became masters of pin-making. Mr. Capitelli is a kind man and has let us involve ourselves fully in the means of pin production. But even so, we have been plagued by Dr. Felix. My sister was only thirty when she died, but her hair had already turned white, just as mine would have, were it not for the special shampoo I use. The variety of products available to purchase today is truly remarkable, no doubt the result of our industrial economy.”

I gave a slight nod.

“Are you saying that your sister Julia is dead? Killed by the evil Capitelli?”

“Yes, she is dead. But not by Mr. Capitelli. He treats us as daughters. It is because of her death that I have sought you out, Mr. Marx. We have an aunt, my mother’s sister, Miss Schumpeter, who lives in Moravia. Julia visited her two years ago and met there a tea merchant, and she became engaged. When my stepfather learned of the engagement, he had no objection, though he flew into a rage and destroyed all the dishpans. But within two weeks of his learning of the engagement, my sister died under mysterious circumstances.”

Karl had been pacing around the room, stroking his beard, listening to the narrative, as if to absorb it. He stopped in place to address our guest.

“Please. You must be very exact as to the details. I cannot yet see how Mr. Capitelli committed this crime.”

“I don’t think that Mr. Capitelli is involved. But I can be precise about the details, as you say, because the memories of these events have been seared into my brain. As I said, my sister Julia and I worked at Capitelli Pins. Julia, as a rule, liked to work in the evenings. Often she was alone in the factory at night. The factory is small, occupying no more than a few rooms. Pins do not take up a lot of space, you see. She was alone in the factory on the night of her death. I had been the last person to see her alive. She would lock the factory doors from the inside. I heard her do so that night. I had no trouble leaving her there in the evenings. There is no way into or out of the factory except through the front door, which she had locked. Is this all clear?”

“She died in a locked room, alone, with no means of entry. Got it. This is a good one, eh, Smith?”

“It is indeed mysterious,” I said.

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To be continued next week for part 2!