Thread: Pondhopper

ODDBALL

A magazine article I read some time ago stated that if all the gold ever produced were to be brought to one place, melted down and squared off, it would form a cube with sides of only sixty feet. I found that amazing. Of course, a solid base would be needed for a chunk of that size, as it would weigh about116,000 tons.

I’d never thought much about this subject until my involvement in the recovery of Horsehead Mulrooney’s coins, in a little matter I’d settled shortly before the one I have in mind now. As a result of the escapade concerning Horsey’s treasure, I’d been considering the lure of gold. I’d had plenty of time – no further business since the Mulrooney affair. I wasn’t worried about that, as I’d got my fees and, by conduct less pure than the driven snow, a big one from the crime boss. He left us some time ago, so I can say what I like.

It had struck me that there was something perverse about this matter of gold. I mean, doesn’t it seem strange that people expend a prodigious amount of effort grovelling in large holes in the ground to extract the stuff, then reconsign over half of it to other subterranean caverns in the world’s banks? An alien observer would surely wonder about this. I mean, in most fields, such activity might be regarded as boondoggling. I’d pondered on. For goodness sake, if this metal is as versatile as so often claimed, why isn’t it all put to better use?

I’m inclined to agree with the comment of, if I remember rightly, John Maynard Keynes, to the effect that as currency, gold is a barbarous relic. I’d rather invest in a society that keeps its books properly. I have the same attitude toward other so-called precious items, and wouldn’t give a dud penny for the world’s supply of diamonds, unless I could dispose of them instantly. I’d take a modest payoff; just enough to let me retire and spend the rest of my life fooling myself by thinking I was doing something useful. I may be on a wavelength of my own in this matter, since I don’t like acquisitions in general. Sorry to go on, but I just thought you might like to know what I think about these things. Anyway, all this has nothing to do with what follows here. It merely gives an indication of what flows through the mind of a detective when he’s not detecting.

My cogitation on the subject of gold was interrupted on a Monday afternoon, when a woman burst into my office. How do I describe her, having said earlier that I’m not good at this? I saw five-four, a stocky one-thirty or so, a black two-piece costume, white blouse and black shoes with medium heels. The dark-brown hair was shortish, straight and parted in the middle. As to age, I guessed about thirty. But it was the face that caught my attention, and I hope this shows you what an upstanding fellow I am. The mouth sagged open and there was something about the eyes; an odd, somewhat loopy look. Offhand, I couldn’t work out whether the expression arose from desperation or some other form of excitement. If you saw the film ‘The Big Bus’, you may recall the splendid performance by a lady called Stockard Channing, who played the engineer responsible for the nuclear-powered vehicle. The way she maintained that nutty appearance was, in my humble opinion, a tour de force. I was looking at something similar.

The woman’s breathing was shallow and fast. She didn’t wait for an invitation, but parked herself on one of my visitors’ chairs. “You must help me,” she gasped.

“Must I?”

“Yes. They’re after me.”

“Are they indeed?”

“Yes. Both of them.”

“I see. And who are they?”

“My father and that dreadful woman he’s married to.”

“Your mother?”

“No, his second wife. My mother is dead.”

It began to make sense. The old step-parent syndrome. “Calm yourself, Ms . . .?”

“Bennett. Laura Bennett.”

I didn’t much like the ‘Laura’ bit, as I’d once had a case featuring a femme fatale of that name, who caused no end of trouble. However, a case was a case. “Right,” I said. Now, you’re safe here. What’s the problem?”

“They want the Carter Stone,” she panted.

My mind went into free-wheel. The Carter Stone! Could this be anything to do with Howard Carter and the tomb of Tutankhamen? “I haven’t heard of the object Ms Bennett” I said. “You’d better explain.”

“Please call me Laura,” she said. “It’s an old family matter. The Carter Stone is an heirloom. The story goes back to England, four generations ago. I don’t know what’s become of the stone, but they think I have it and they’re prepared to kill me to get their hands on it.”

She still had that strange look. The soothing approach seemed best. “Laura,” I said, “and by the way, I’m Cyril,” this is twentieth-century America, not mid-Victorian Britain. Take your time, collect your thoughts and tell me all.”

“But what about your fees?” she said. “I don’t know if I can afford to pay.”

“Never mind that. I’m flexible. Just give me the details.”

She clenched her hands. “The Carter Stone was in the family for decades, Cyril. Legend has it that the inscription engraved on it leads to the place where my great-grandfather buried his money. It’s somewhere in Cornwall. You sound like an Englishman, but you say you haven’t heard of it.”

“No,” I said. “It means nothing to me. Go on.”

She shivered, looking around. “I saw it just once, years ago. It’s a thin slab – sandstone, I think – about ten inches by eight. There are some words and marks on it, but they never meant anything to my grandparents or my parents. When my mother died, eighteen months ago, we moved house. Somehow, the stone disappeared. My father remarried soon afterwards. He’d been having an affair with Janet – that’s my stepmother – for years. He’s always hated me because I’m the only child and he wanted a boy. He thinks I hid the stone.”

“And you didn’t?”

“No. It simply vanished. I’ve no idea how or where it went.”

I gave her the wise nod. “All right, Laura. Now, do you live locally?”

That foxed her for a moment, then: “No, I just got here today. I’m from . . . Cincinnati.”

“I see,” I said. That’s interesting. I lived there for a while when I first came to the States. I had an apartment on Wesley Street, close to where all those insurance companies have their offices.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I was right next to the old college building. They were about to demolish it and put a supermarket in its place. I guess they’ve done that by now?”

“A supermarket,” she said. “Yes, they have.”

“Okay, Laura. So these people are hunting you. What do you want me to do?”

“I . . . I really don’t know. Just stop them.”

“All right,” I said. “Now, where are you staying?”

“Nowhere as yet. I thought you could recommend something. Not too expensive. I can’t pay very much.”

My mind flicked through the possibilities. “Yes,” I said, “I think I can. You could try Hanford’s, on Greek Street. Not pretentious, but quiet and respectable. You might tell them that I’ll be dropping in. Saves complications.”

I knew what Hanford’s charged and told her. She was delighted. I phoned the hotel and booked her in, then we swatted our problem around, concluding that she would call me if necessary, and would otherwise go about her apparently non-existent business. I would snoop, homing in on anyone pursuing her.

Laura departed, leaving me to think. The first point I considered was our talk about Cincinnati. I’d never been to the place and still haven’t. My interjection had been pure inspiration, and in retrospect I was quite proud of it. However, I didn’t know whether the city had a Wesley Street or whether, if there was such a place, it might be occupied largely by insurance companies. Then I thought about my ridiculous long-shot concerning the existence of an old college, recently demolished to make way for a supermarket. Why had she gone along with that?

Next, I considered my fees. I’d finally got around to mentioning them and she hadn’t said anything in reply. That was abnormal. Usually, prospective clients fastened onto the point, no matter how difficult their circumstances were. If they didn’t, it meant either that money was no object or they didn’t intend to pay. Laura Bennett had indicated that she wasn’t in the first category. So, whatever her other attributes, she was an incompetent liar and probably wouldn’t cough up. What was her game?

I wasn’t too churned up about this because as I’ve said I’d nothing else on and was doing well moneywise. I’d agreed to start my surveillance at seven that evening. Laura was vague about her likely movements, saying she would decide them as she went along, but certainly wouldn’t go out until the following day.

Having heard nothing further from my strange client, I attacked a pizza which had more topping than Carmen Miranda’s hat, then drove to Hanford’s hotel. I was pleased about my speed of thought in recommending the place. Though I hadn’t been fully conscious of what had gone through my mind earlier, I had remembered that there was usually plenty of parking space in Greek Street. That always helps. On the debit side, I had no contacts on the staff at Hanford’s.

It was a welcome change to start an evening’s work without having to think about food. One of the pains of a private eye’s life is the irregularity of eating. That was often a problem for me, as I was – and am – very big on bowels. Good movements in the morning set a man up for the day is my motto. I know I’ve indicated elsewhere that I often patronised the local greasy spoon place, and realise that doesn’t quite square with what I’ve just said, but I had my methods. Well, all right, if you want to press the point, the secret is two tablespoonfuls of oat bran with the main meal, plus lots of drinking water every day. Okay?

Unless she’d got up to something sneaky, like slipping out at the rear, Laura had kept her word by spending the evening indoors. At eleven o’clock I called it a day.

Just before nine the following morning, I was in position again, passably bright and breezy. I say passably because I had a cold, which doesn’t help the concentration. I often wonder about the snoopers I read about in novels. No matter how long their cases last, or how many they have in quick succession, they’re never indisposed by the things which affect most of us – sniffles, headaches, gut-gripes and so on – or if they have such afflictions, they don’t mention them, despite having total recall in other respects. Doesn’t that seem a little odd? Maybe these people are impervious to discomfort. What the hell, who cares about a couple of slugs in the chest, or an arm torn off? Please forgive the rambling.

Apart from the boredom element, following Laura was easy. She finally appeared at 11.30, taking a taxi which she must have ordered. I’ve mentioned that I was not a keen observer, much less a critic, of sartorial matters, but I noted that my client was wearing the same outfit as when she’d visited me. I put that together with the fact that she hadn’t had a car or a taxi when she’d called, nor had she been carrying any luggage. That might have meant nothing, but it’s the sort of detail a PI files away. She went to the central library, staying there for nearly three hours. At 2.35 she emerged, looking around nervously. Within a minute, she flagged down a taxi, which took her back to Hanford’s, yours truly following.

I hung around, watching the hotel entrance, thinking about that sixty-foot-a-side cube of gold – and grabbing a gargantuan turkey sandwich from an eatery over the road. Laura didn’t come out again. So that was it for the day – except for the fact that a dark-blue Chevrolet, which I’d noted tagging along earlier, both ways, was parked in the street when I started for home. It was unoccupied then, but earlier had been carrying a man and a woman.

I was on duty again at nine the following morning. Let me not weary you with the details of Laura’s movements. They were different from the previous day, but equally ordinary. She wore the same clothes as before and got back to the hotel at 3.30 in the afternoon. The blue car, still with the same couple in it, had followed us again, finally parking about thirty yards from my spot. The man and woman, both middle-aged, got out and went into the hotel. This seemed like time for a move. I entered Hanford’s, telling the lass at reception that Ms Bennett was expecting me. I’d been prepared for some recalcitrance, but there was none. Laura had apparently followed my suggestion to tip off the staff, so I was directed to her room.

Hanford’s was not built like a medieval castle. The outer walls were solid enough and the public areas were well-carpeted, but the interior partitioning was flimsy. Even though Laura’s door was closed, I could hear raised voices from within. Legally, my position may have been questionable, but there are times when one must go into manual override. It seemed to me that matters inside had reached a critical point, so I opened the door and stepped in, realising, not for the first time in my career, that I was approaching a possible denouement unarmed.

“What goes on here?” I shouted – and to be quite truthful, my voice quavered a little, though I didn’t think an explanation of my presence was really necessary. Laura stood, clasping her hands and looking distressed. The two people from the Chevrolet faced her. The man, who wore a charcoal suit, white shirt and navy-blue tie with thin silver stripes – I didn’t notice his shoes – was around five-ten and heavily-built. He had close-cropped, greying hair and a trim grey moustache, both contrasting sharply with the angry red of his face. He was one of those men who even when standing still radiate balled-up energy, as though about to explode. The woman was tall – nearly the same height as the man – slim and totem-pole straight. Statuesque was the word that came to mind. She had short, jet-black hair and a pale face and wore a sheeny light-green three-piece outfit. She looked ice-cool.

The man swung my way. “Who are you?” he snapped.

“My name is Potts,” I said, “I’m a private investigator and Ms Bennett is my client. Now, I’d –”

“Hold it, everybody!” The bellowed interruption came from right behind me and the voice sounded familiar. I turned, taking in a flock of new arrivals. I recognised the owner of the voice as Detective Corcoran of the local police department. In the normal run of business I had little to do with the official force and was probably tolerated as a spot of mildly exotic colour. Corcoran was one of the half-dozen or so officers known to me. Behind him was a tall thin glum-looking character and to the rear him were two shorter bulkier lads who somehow made me think of security guards, or something similar. Maybe I should have sold tickets. Discreet, hah.

Corcoran gave me the briefest of nods, neither friendly nor hostile, then motioned me to step further back into the room. He followed, as did the lofty character. The muscles stayed put. “All right,” Corcoran said, “I think it’s time we divvied up a little information here. You first, Potts. How do you fit in?”

I extended an arm towards Laura. “Ms Bennett here engaged me to protect her against harassment from her father and stepmother – I assume the lady and gentleman here qualify. That’s what I was trying to do when you arrived.”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible for the florid fellow to have got any redder in the face than he already had been, but he confounded me with what looked like a fit of apoplexy. Sometimes words fail his kind. After almost choking for a moment, he waved a hand at the tall undertaker-type. “You tell it,” he snapped. “God knows you’re getting paid enough.”

Mr Solemn inclined his head in a gesture of suave deference, which must have taken some practice. “Very well.” He faced me. “Mr Potts, you are evidently not in possession of all the facts here. I am Stanley Morton, of the Morton Institute. You may have heard of us.”

I certainly had. He was speaking of the most prestigious private mental home in the state. I nodded. “This young lady” – he waved at Laura – “was committed to my care two years ago, following a car crash, in which she received head injuries. At the time of the accident, she had just finished reading a novel. The theme was the loss of an object called the Carter Stone, which supposedly indicated the location of certain valuables. The heroine of the book was one Laura Bennett. She was being hounded by her father and stepmother, who were convinced she had the stone. Unfortunately, the injuries disturbed the mind of the lady here – again he wafted a hand at my client – causing her to be convinced that she was this Laura Bennett. It is a most inter . . . distressing case.”

“I see,” I said. “So who is she really, then?”

“Her name is Elaine Buxton. She is the natural child of the couple here. The gentleman is Claude Buxton, of Buxton Electrical Industries. The lady is his wife, Susan. I regret to say that Elaine eluded our security.”

“Leaks like a damned sieve,” snarled Buxton.

Morton ignored that. “I contacted the police and Mr and Mrs Buxton pursued their own course of enquiry. It’s all ended here.”

Corcoran reassumed control. “Okay,” he said, “now everybody knows what’s what. Mr Morton, if you’d care to take charge of Miss Buxton, we can all leave. We may need to talk again, but I know where to contact all of you.”

Morton’s men in white coats, without the white coats – discretion guaranteed – hustled out Elaine, who now looked even odder in the eyes than when she’d called on me. As we left, Buxton and I were in the rear. Suddenly, he clamped a meaty hand on my left elbow. “Listen,” he grunted, “I want you to know that neither you nor this hotel will get a cent from me. This loony is costing us more than enough. And in case you’re wondering, she has no funds of her own.”

Somehow I didn’t fancy being Buxton’s daughter, or his anything. I’d taken a strong dislike to the man even before he started mauling me, so gave him my best steely glare. “Buxton,” I said, pointing at his offending paw, “if you don’t take that thing off me, I’ll feed it to you, right up to the armpit.” I imagined no-one had ever talked to him that way. He let go and jumped away in a manner I found gratifying.

That was how it ended. I’d lost out on two days of fees. But I was still in feel-good mode from coming out so far ahead in the adventure with old Mulrooney. My little ruse in that case began to look like foresight. Or was it more a matter of true justice? After all, I’d won one by deception, then promptly lost the next by being the victim of the same thing.

I went back to the office and thought about that cube of gold.

CHANCER

For a change, my desk was being used as something other than a foot-rest. The surface wasn’t strewn for effect, you understand. It was supporting genuine work. To my left – because I’m sinistral – was a sheet of paper bearing an array of diagrams. Under my nose was one of the few books I owned – most of my reading material came from the local library. This work, Business Mathematics, was written by L.W.T. Stafford, and I would like to express my indebtedness to the author for what I consider an outstanding effort.

My cranial frenzy had been induced that morning, when I’d exchanged a few words with young Bobbie, who ran a newspaper stand near the office. Though I seldom bought his wares, he always seemed happy to pass the time of day with me. I think he considered my occupation glamorous. As I approached him, he was repeatedly tossing a coin, slapping it onto his left wrist, looking at it and grunting to himself. “Morning, Bobbie,” I said. “You look like an understudy for George Raft.”

“Mornin’, Mr Potts. I just don’t figure it.”

“Figure what?”

“This coin thing. I mean, if you toss one, you’d expect a fifty-fifty chance of a head, wouldn’t you?”

“Correct. So?”

“Well, if you tossed it twice, you’d still reckon the same way for two heads, wouldn’t you?”

I knew there was a catch in that, but couldn’t recall exactly what it was. However, I did remember – with commendable speed, I maintain – that my friend Stafford had something to say on the subject. Strange how these disparate things get together at the same time. “You’re wrong, Bobbie,” I said, “but I have to get to the phone right now. I’ll come back to you.”

I was stalling of course, but Bobbie seemed to regard me as an intellectual and I didn’t intend to disappoint him. Having nothing else to do, I dug out my vade mecum and got to work, knowing that I would be dealing with Pascal and his famous triangle, or something closely allied thereto.

After two hours of immersion, I was boned up. If you toss a coin once, the chance of getting a head is obviously fifty per cent. But if you toss twice, you might get head-head, head-tail, tail-head, or tail-tail, so your chance of two heads is only twenty-five per cent. Ever the experimenter, I tried this out with two series, each of a hundred double-tosses. It works. I got two heads twenty-three times with the first effort and twenty-four times with the second. That seemed reasonable to me, since the chances are three-to-one against, so any deviation from the expected outcome will be likewise. I was satisfied – and by the way, if you want to get three heads with three tosses, you have one chance in eight. With four tosses, it’s one in sixteen, and so on. One day, I’ll go into this matter of probabilities in the detail it deserves.

I was about to step out and reveal all to Bobbie when I got a visitor. Like too many other callers, he didn’t bother to knock – I might as well have swapped my PI licence for a hawker’s permit and worked on the street corner. Not that an alfresco arrangement would have been appropriate for my man, who didn’t seem like the outdoors type. He was, I guessed, in his thirties, about five-ten, heavily built, with a square, clean-shaven, fleshy face and plenty of straight mid-brown hair, slicked back. He wore a dark-blue, faintly reddish-striped suit, which I suspected hadn’t come off any peg, a blindingly white shirt, maroon tie with tiny gold somethings on it and gleaming black lace-up shoes. But for the bulging in his middle reaches, he could have been a tailor’s dummy. There was something about him that put me on my guard. It might have been the grey eyes – they seemed to lack the ingenuousness I’d have liked to see – or maybe the overall turn-out which, immaculate though it was, somehow verged on the flashy. Was he a low-life who’d got lucky? What the Irish call a chancer? One shouldn’t indulge in such speculation.

“Cyril Potts?” he asked.

“Yes. Have a seat.”

He thudded down like a meteorite impacting the Earth. “I need help,” he said, breathing heavily.

“And you are?”

“Clyde Osborne.”

“What’s your trouble, Mr Osborne?”

“I work for Victor Marks,” he said – and now that he’d strung more than two words together and begun to settle down, I was trying to get something from his speech. Nothing doing. It was a neutral, come-from-almost-anywhere voice.

“Oh.” My flat, downbeat tone said it all. I hadn’t thought it possible for me to get a world of meaning into one syllable, but I must have done it.

Osborne gave me a tight smile. “That seems to get through to you.”.

It did. I hadn’t met, or even seen, Victor Marks, but had heard a lot about him, all of which suggested that I would be as well off without personal acquaintanceship. Superficially, Marks was a land and property developer, though I didn’t know of anything he’d developed. According to scuttlebutt, his main activities were gambling and offering unsecured loans. I wasn’t sure how the first stood with the authorities, but I didn’t see anything wrong with it. If some people wanted to place bets and he was prepared to accommodate them, where was the problem? I assumed that he kept everything above board, taxwise.

The lending was a different matter, especially the way Marks allegedly went about it. I’d heard that those who owed him money had two ways of dealing with their predicament. The less disagreeable route was to pay up at hair-raising interest rates. The other involved a quartet of psychopaths in Victor’s employ. It was said they enjoyed rearranging the physiques of defaulting debtors. I wasn’t au fait with the details, but knitting together what I knew and what I’d heard, I reckoned that as a boneman, Marks probably ranked somewhere between Vlad the Impaler and Tamerlane.

“I’ve heard of him,” I said. “Go on.”

Osborne’s face had taken on what, if I were a literary type, I’d call a sickly hue. “I manage the Amethyst Lounge for Marks,” he said. “In case you don’t know, it’s a gaming house.”

I knew where the place was and what happened there, which didn’t include much lounging, but was not aware of Marks’ involvement. I nodded Osborne on and he shifted uneasily. “Well, to cut a long story short, I’ve made a mistake. There’s this woman.”

I avoided saying ‘cherchez la femme’. “And?”

“She came into the place two months ago. Twenty-six years old and a dazzler. She played for high stakes from the beginning, lost a pile and was brought into my office. I’m a professional and I should have known better, but she knocked me right out of my shoes. God help me, I okayed her, in exchange for . . . well . . .”

“Certain favours?” I suggested.

“You’re a man of the world.”

I didn’t recall being accused of that before, but produced a sage nod. “It comes with the job.”

He wriggled. “Before I knew what I was doing, she was into the club for twelve thousand. She paid me in kind all right, but if I had to work out the rate, I’d have been better off with a top-class hooker. I mean, it must have worked out at fifty dollars –”

“Yes,” I said. “I can imagine. And the result is . . .”

“It’s an old story,” he said. “She disappeared and the shortfall was discovered. Victor fired me and gave me a week to come up with the money. My time’s up now.”

“And you haven’t obliged?”

“No.”

“So what happens next?”

“You want me to spell it out?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary, but I’m not clear as to how I come in, especially at this late stage.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know that any better than you do. I’m not even sure you do come in, but I’m desperate. Look, since I came to this town two years ago, I’ve been tied up with my work and too busy to have a social life.”

“I’d have thought your life was social by definition.”

That brought another constipated grin. “Not really. In my world a man has associates, not friends. Oh, they give you the palsy-walsy look and slap you on the back, but believe me, if they see you fall, they’re onto the carcass like hyenas. You might find it hard to accept, but as of right now, you may be nearer to a friend than anyone else I know.”

I was surprised, but only for a moment, after which it occurred to me that people in Osborne’s business tend to work all night and sleep during the day. Without quite thinking it through, I surmised that he was telling the truth. “I understand,” I said, “but I don’t see what I can do?”

“Don’t underestimate yourself. You’re highly regarded in certain circles. I’ve even heard Victor mention you. Maybe if you step in and ask him to give me a little time, he’ll listen. I don’t know why I think that, but I do.”

Now it was my turn for shoulder-jerking. “Well, if that’s all you want, I’ll try, but I think you have too high an estimate of any influence I might have. Also, there’s the possibility that Marks will object to my intercession, which could be bad news for both of us. Have you thought of just getting lost?”

He shook his head. “There’s no escaping Victor Marks. First, he’s having me watched. Most likely he knows I’m here. Second, even if he wasn’t keeping tabs, he’d have no trouble finding me. I’ve heard of people who tried to get away from him. Not one of them made it. It’s a sport with him, like with big-game hunters. One fellow got to Scotland and another to Australia. It didn’t do either of them any good. Running isn’t an option.”

“All right,” I said. “I don’t like it, but I’ll do what I can. How do I contact you?”

He gave me an address in an out-of-town hotel where he’d registered under a false name, plus a phone number for Marks. As he rose to leave he forced out another pained smile. “Don’t mind my saying so, Mr Potts, but you don’t have that tough-guy look I’d expected of a man in your business.”

I chuckled. “I was off duty when you arrived. Now that the clock’s ticking I can do ‘mean’ as well as the next man. So long, Mr Osborne.”

After he left, it occurred to me that we hadn’t talked about my fees. Still, with all that money sloshing around they seemed trivial and anyway, I didn’t intend to exert myself unduly. Maybe a phone call and a short drive would do the trick, if it could be done at all. Being – at times – a man of action, I phoned Marks immediately. I got a secretary and told her who I was and what I wanted. She put me on hold for over a minute, then came back and without apologising for the delay said that Marks would see me in an hour, if I could make it, which I guessed meant that I’d better do so.

I turned up on time, finding that the versatile entrepreneur occupied a modest top-floor suite in a four-storey building. Having read a slew of PI novels, I’d like to report that I was greeted by a mind-numbing lovely. In fact the gatekeeper was a severe-looking woman of fifty or so. She muttered something unintelligible, then showed me into the den.

Marks was all smiles. He stood, indicating a chair, which I took, then he offered me Scotch. Departing from my rules concerning booze I accepted that, too. I guessed my host as forty or so. He was around five-eight, medium in build and clean-shaven, with an olive complexion, straight black hair, incisors suitable for a toothpaste advert and anthracite eyes that gave the impression of banked fires, needing only a puff of wind to fan them into flames. For a moment, I wondered what his name might have been in a different place or time. Vittorio Marconi was my first shot and I never changed it, perhaps because Victor joined the spirit world five months after our sole meeting. I didn’t learn the full details, but heard he had a disagreement with a competitor in an affair that ended with lead and concrete, in that order. Real estate work can be dangerous.

Marks asked about the nature of my mission, then listened without interruption, his face a bland mask. When I finished, he nodded. “Most succinct, Mr Potts,” he said, in a brisk, businesslike way that suggested changing times. “Your fame got here ahead of you and from the little I’ve seen and heard, you appear to substantiate it.” He spoke quietly, his tone exuding self-assurance. “I know about your dealings with Jack Lanigan and Hors . . . er . . . Mr Mulrooney, all to your credit. However, I fail to see how that impinges upon the situation with respect to Mr Osborne and myself. If I may say so, you seem to be holding what the poker players call a nondescript hand.”

I was impressed by his elocution and his vocabulary. “I’ve no argument there,” I said. “I’m simply introducing my good offices – so far gratis, by the way. This could be what the lawyers call a pro bono matter.”

He was smiling again. “Very well. I appreciate your intervention and I realise that you are doing your best. However, these things have a momentum of their own and I doubt that your efforts will have much effect. Still, I thank you for your time. And now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

I excused him all right, and had no illusions about what I’d achieved. I’ve never met another man who gave me the impression that Marks did. In addition to being articulate, he was as calm and as smooth as they come. But he scared me. Inexorable was the word. In terms of urbanity, he was somewhat like my old friend Joe Keyes, but with a dollop of added menace.

I wanted this thing out of the way, so I went back to the office and phoned Osborne, telling him all. He seemed to have been overcome by serenity, or maybe he’d swallowed something helpful. He thanked me for my work, but didn’t say anything about paying for it. I hadn’t the heart to raise the matter.

Next, I remembered Bobbie, so went downstairs and along to his spot, where I staggered him with my findings concerning coin-tossing. Naturally, I didn’t tell him that the knowledge wasn’t original Potts work – self-effacement is all very well, within limits. Leaving the lad shaking his head, I walked along the block to my usual eatery for an early dinner, then went home. With a conscience as clear as my bank account – nothing much on the one or in the other – I watched a re-run of ‘The Odd Couple’ on TV. If I had to name my top ten films, that would be a contender for the number one spot. And lest you should consider me frivolous, I’d put ‘The Apartment’ only a nose behind. Full marks, Mr Lemmon.

The following morning, I made a late appearance at the office – nothing new about that – and waited for clients. They stayed away in droves, and I wish I’d been the first one to think of that expression. Following the previous day’s immersion in Stafford’s treatise, I decided to carry on in the same vein. I wasn’t too hot on calculus, so reckoned there was no time like the present for a little polishing. I galloped along, pausing only for a sandwich lunch, washed down with a quart of tap water. At five o’clock, I was about to call it another day without another dollar when the phone rang. Good God, it might be somebody.

I recognised the voice of Marks’ watchdog, who put me through to her boss. “Good evening, Mr Potts,” he said. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient moment.” Mellifluous.

“Not at all, Mr Marks. I was just about to down the pre-prandial sherry but there’s always time for you.”

He laughed. “I’m so flattered. Also, it’s calming to hear the voice of sanity, the more so now that matters have taken such an unfortunate turn.”

Not knowing what he was referring to, I cleared my throat to give me time for thought. That didn’t help. I would have to feel my way forward. “I’m always sorry to hear of any sadness anywhere. Did you have a particular event in mind?”

“Alas, yes, Mr Potts. We spoke yesterday of a mutual acquaintance.”

“Indeed we did. Have you any further news?”

“Regrettably, I have. It seems that the gentleman concerned came to grief late last night, barely ten miles from here. So strange, coming on the heels of your visit to me. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I hear the incident occurred an hour or two after a terrible mishap to two of my associates. They say it never rains but what it pours.”

“They do indeed. Are you able to give me details?”

“I am. As it happened, my colleagues were on their way to a meeting with that acquaintance I spoke of. Unfortunately, they had a motoring accident. It grieves me to say that both gentlemen perished.”

I was intuiting briskly and felt that I was getting the idea. “Most distressing, Mr Marks. And unusual. I mean, there isn’t all that much traffic at night in these parts and there’s no ice, so I guess it wasn’t a pile-up or a skid.”

“No. It seems that my associates’ vehicle encountered an array of steel spikes in the road. But then, without wishing to be disrespectful with regard to your general knowledge, I imagine you aren’t an expert in metallurgy?”

“Absolutely not, Mr Marks. Please accept my condolences. You also mentioned the other party. Could you enlarge?”

“I could, but as I’m quite pressed for time, may I suggest you consult our estimable local newspaper? By the way, how long will you be in your office?”

I didn’t like the sound of that, but had no intention of ducking out. “I’d planned on being here until six.” I hadn’t, but never mind.

“Excellent, Mr Potts. Please stay there. Goodbye.”

Having digested the conversation, I went down to amaze Bobbie again by requesting the paper. Both items were on the front page. The first said that two self-employed security guards had died in a road accident. There was nothing about the spikes, so I assumed that they’d been cleared before the newshounds got into the act. Obviously Marks was ahead of the press.

The second report described one of those supposedly million-to-one chances that somehow keep occurring. A local man had taken a post-midnight drive – unprecedented for him – in an effort to solve his social problems. He stopped at Southfield Rocks, a prominent landmark. Approaching the huge pile of boulders and rubble, he saw two men scrabbling at the foot of the heap. They noticed his torch bobbing along their way, abandoned their work and made off in a darkened car.

The startled man plodded on, intent upon sitting atop the rocks. On reaching the spot where the two men had been working, he noticed a shoe sticking out of a mound of stones. Where many a man would have fled, he stayed and established the presence of a corpse. He hurried off to the cop-shop and the gendarmes accompanied him back to the scene.

The dead man’s pockets had been emptied, but rapid police work and local dentistry prevailed. The late Clyde Osborne had had two gnashers crowned five months earlier.

Putting two and two together, I concluded that my client had polished off Marks’ front-line troops with the road obstacle, but hadn’t been able to handle the second team, whose disposal efforts had been frustrated by the local chap. Served them right for such sloppy work.

I was admiring my smarts when a short, chubby man of fifty or so, wearing a tweed suit and matching hat, walked in. Like Osborne, he breached my defences in a trice. I was unwilling to discard my last thought. “Hah,” I said. “You’d be the backup.”

“The what?”

“Backup. I think I’ve worked it out. It’s as clear to me as if I’d been there.”

He retreated, mouth agape. “Just my luck,” he said. “I come in here lookin’ to hire a detective an’ what do I get? A damned loony, that’s what.” If a fattish man of five-five can stalk out of a room, he did, leaving me to think I’d better do something about my deskside manner.

Five minutes later, another man came in. He didn’t bother to knock, either. Open day at Potts Investigations. This fellow really had to be Marks’ emissary – a little over six feet, buffalo shoulders, charcoal suit, dark-blue shirt, plain yellow tie and black shoes which could have doubled as car crushers. He tossed a brown envelope at me, sniggering as my hand strayed towards the drawer containing my .38. “No need to grope,” he said. “Not that it would do you any good. What you got here is a token from Mr Marks. He says to tell you he guesses you got no pay from your last case an’ he don’t like to see an honest man come up short. Forget paperwork an’ keep the lip buttoned if you know what’s good for you, right?” Not concerned about any reaction, he turned and strolled out.

I opened the envelope. Currency. Oh, goody. Five bills, bearing numbers of a size I didn’t see too often. All’s well that ends well, I thought.

NUTKIN

I was in a strange state. Not exactly the doldrums – I was accustomed to that position. This was different; a kind of other-worldliness. The mood had been induced by certain items in a batch of magazines I’d received gratis. First, a group of scientists had suggested that our universe is flat – in the mathematical sense. I didn’t grasp all the details, but thought I understood the basic idea. If you draw a triangle on a table top, the sum of the angles add up, as Euclid told us, to a hundred and eighty degrees. If you do the same on a ball, the angles will amount to more than one-eighty, and if you do it on a saddle, the total will be less than that. Simple enough, I reckoned.

The spherical interpretation, meaning that the vastness around us was, in physics-speak, closed and finite had been popular, but it seemed the boffins were veering towards the hundred and eighty degree notion. This would leave us with an open, expanding cosmos, where the galaxies are to cool into a scattering of frigid cinders. The fact that this process will take trillions of years failed to console me, as it still wouldn’t be worthwhile to start reading ‘War and Peace’.

I’d hardly begun meditating on this news when the second part of what was to be a quadruple-whammy clouded my horizon. Another source asserted that the Sun is burning out and its death throes will engulf us in five billion years at the latest. Compared to the open universe timescale, this problem is urgent. The Earth is going to be fried before it is frozen. Then – part three – I learned that the Moon is drifting away from us at the alarming rate of about two centimetres a year. In due course, this is going to cause the planet to pitch, roll and yaw like a storm-tossed yacht. So we shall get nauseous before we are cooked before we are frozen.

Just when I thought I had enough on my plate, part four turned up. I read that the great forests have, despite human depredations, long been absorbing carbon dioxide as fast as it has been produced, because new tree growth outstrips decay. The same article argued that something analogous applies to the oceans, with respect to their retention of methane – but let’s not go into that – the woodlands will do. What upset me was the suggestion that the greenery gets bouts of indigestion and spews up all that CO2 it’s been hoarding, so we might asphyxiate before we get nauseous, before we are roasted, before we are iced. And this breathing thing is probably due within a century. For goodness sake, that’s now! And until all this was dumped on me, I’d thought that tectonic shifts and gigantic ocean waves were troublesome enough.

My train of thought was interrupted by a visitor, who opened the outer door, peered around the anteroom for a moment, then entered the office. As to appearance, she was quite a study. About five-eight and slim, with a ramrod posture that suggested iron discipline, a classy upbringing or both. The short straight hair had the hue – the texture too, I fancied – of iron filings, and the outfit comprised a charcoal jacket, matching skirt, white blouse and low-heeled black shoes. She wore neither watch nor obvious jewellery and didn’t carry a handbag. Seemingly a woman who stuck to basics.

Outside, the temperature – this being late July – was way up, but she seemed frosty. What really caught my attention was the face, which was all angles, lines and wrinkles, with a severe, screwed-up look, the overall sourness intensified by small-lensed glasses with a barely noticeable gold frame. The straight, thin-lipped mouth was bracketed by deep parenthetic furrows. A prune in vinegar was my impression. The general physique seemed supple. It was as though the head had worn out it’s original body and been grafted onto a younger one. Abraham Lincoln once said that every man over forty is responsible for his face. I wondered whether he’d intended the remark to apply to women as well, then I thought that everything pithy ever said seemed to have emanated from Lincoln, Twain, Wilde or Churchill. Why did the rest of us bother to turn up?

Emboldened by my readings about the work of S. Holmes, I formed a tentative view. The lady was probably seventyish, lonely, with a penchant for complaining and a personality that discouraged social intercourse. Good work, Potts. You have the makings of a sleuth.

She glanced around my pit, managing to avoid holding her nose. I asked her to take a seat.

“Mr Potts,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “You are a detective, I believe.” The voice was sharp, edgy and a little querulous, making me think of a knife-blade being dragged across a plate.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“Well, I want you to detect something.”

I nodded. “That seems reasonable, ma’am. What do you have in mind?”

I’d thought that with the ice broken, my visitor might have relaxed. I was wrong. “Please don’t ‘ma’am’ me.”

“No ma … no. Shall I say: ‘hey, you,’ or am I to learn who you are?”

“My name is Margaret Tremayne. Mrs. I’m a widow.”

I wasn’t surprised. The poor guy had probably jumped from a high ledge. “Excellent, Mrs Tremayne. We progress. What’s the problem?”

“I wish you to find out what has happened to my squirrel.”

“Squirrel?”

She gave me the narrowest of smiles. “Very good. We’ve established that your hearing is sound. Yes, squirrel. I domesticated him.” That was entirely believable. “His name is Cyril.”

Was I really hearing this? “Er, yes, quite. I see. Squirrel’s a Cyr . . . sorry, Cyril’s a squirrel?”

“Correct. You may plod, Mr Potts, but you get there.”

I tried to favour her with a grin as lean as the one she’d given me, but was no match for her. “Thank you, Mrs Tremayne. I’m flattered. Now, did you come to me because of my glowing reputation, or is it simply that your pet and I are namesakes?” For some reason not entirely clear to me, I thought that jab might have punctured her. Fat chance!

“The latter. It seemed appropriate.”

“Set a Cyril to catch a Cyril, eh? Fair enough. However, you raise two points here.”

“Which are?”

“First, I don’t do animal work. Well, I’ll qualify that. I once found a cat, but it wasn’t a real one.”

“You recovered an imaginary cat?”

“No, not imaginary. It was a statuette.”

“Ah, I see. But you were successful.”

“Eminently.”

“And the second point?”

“That’s more awkward. I don’t think I want to work for you, Mrs Tremayne.”

“Oh,” – a very frosty ‘oh’. “May I ask why not?”

“Because I think you’re an unpleasant, domineering old harridan.” I was still trying to yank her off that high horse.

Another smile, this time fractionally wider. “Dear me, Mr Potts, tautology – and I was beginning to form such a good impression of your English. If I’m a harridan, the ‘unpleasant, domineering old’ part is redundant, surely? A harridan is all that by implication, is she not?”

Damn, she was right. “Well said, Mrs. T. Maybe we can get on, despite all that’s passed between us.”

She positively beamed, which is to say that I got a further millimetre of her sense of humour. “I think you will do,” she said, “and I believe you’ll take the case.” My attitude was clearly insignificant.

I had to give it to her, she was intriguing. “Mrs Tremayne,” I said, “I don’t like you, but I think there’s a human being under that permafrost. Tell me all.”

She folded her arms. “Cyril is not the real problem here. I am attached to him, but he is a side-issue. The difficulty arises from my relationship with my stepdaughter. She is the only child of my husband, who died three months ago. Since then, Louise has been annoying me.”

Having recently dealt with a bogus stepdaughter, I began to hope of dealing with a real one. “Annoying you? How and why?”

“I’m sure it’s not an original story. My husband was wealthy and had been a widower for some time. When I married him, four years ago, I believe Louise concluded that her expectations evaporated. She detested me from the outset and sees me as a manipulator and an obstacle.”

“And you are neither?”

“True. Now, you have assessed me as unpleasant, and perhaps that is so, but I am neither devious nor obstructive.”

“I’ll accept that provisionally, but I’m puzzled. You say you been widowed for three months. I imagine the inheritance formalities have been settled?”

“They have, and Louise was handsomely provided for, but she is an avaricious person. She knows that before his death, my husband had disposed of many of his assets, in some cases by transferring them to me and in others by liquidating them and donating the proceeds to various charities. Now, considering that Louise has reached the age of forty-three without ever having done anything that might be considered work, paid or unpaid, I would say that her material gains have been more than adequate. Sadly, she appears to seek wealth for its own sake, without regard to what she might do with it. I’m afraid the phrase ‘enough is as good as a feast’ has no resonance with her.”

I nodded. Despite my initial reaction to this woman, I was beginning to think she was not quite the cantankerous crone her carapace suggested. Maybe she’d created the facade and was acting the part she thought was expected of her. “I understand,” I said. “You’ve covered why Louise has been annoying you. How is she doing it?”

“Within two weeks of my husband’s death, I got up one morning to find a message chalked on my patio. The wording was extremely offensive, including a wish for my early demise. That afternoon, Louise visited me. I left her alone for a few minutes and discovered later that two porcelain figurines were missing from a very valuable set of six. It was a limited edition. I believe the pieces are practically irreplaceable. Then there have been the telephone calls.”

“From Louise?”

“I can’t prove that. The ringing comes late at night and causes me, or perhaps I should say induces me, to answer. When I do, the only response is the comment, ‘I’ll get you,’ then muted laughter. I feel sure the voice is female, though it’s disguised by a certain gruffness, no doubt assumed for the purpose. Also, the calls come from public phones and are on my private line, which is known to only a handful of people, including Louise. I’m sure no-one else who has the number would wish me harm.”

“You seem confident about your social contacts.”

“Mr Potts, my husband and I lived a secluded life. We rarely gave or accepted invitations. I have few friends worthy of the name and not many casual acquaintances. Louise knows this. She is also aware of my interest in wildlife and that Cyril is – I begin to fear I may as well say was – dear to me. Frankly, I don’t pretend to have plumbed the depths of Louise’s mentality, but my feeling is that she is trying to destroy my mind, in the expectation that she will benefit, should her campaign succeed.”

“Have you spoken with the police?”

“No. If I’m right, this is a family matter and I wish to keep it so.”

“I see,” I said. “You want me to tackle Louise. Cyril the squirrel is incidental?”

“Yes. Exactly as I said. By the way, Cyril is unusual.”

“In what way?”

“He is a red squirrel. They are more common in Europe and Asia than here and less aggressive than the grey ones. It may be that he is so tame because he escaped from captivity.”

I risked a chuckle. “Not that I don’t consider you enchanting, Mrs Tremayne,” I said, “but how did you … er… lure Cyril?”

“Nuts.”

“If you say so.”

The smile widened slightly. I’d be having her in hysterics anytime now. “When one thinks of a squirrel, one also thinks of nuts, does one not?”

“No doubt, though normally I don’t think of either.”

“I understand. Anyway, I built a little contraption, like a combined mousetrap and rabbit hutch. It enabled Cyril to get his nourishment while keeping him safe from predators. I even got him to eat from my hand. Each morning I set him free and each evening he returned to his food and security. Squirrels are remarkably smart. I don’t pride myself on very much, Mr Potts, but I think I did well there. However, Cyril disappeared two nights ago. You may think me paranoid, but I am persuaded that Louise was responsible.”

I was warming to the old bat. She seemed odd and projected several negatives, but if you multiply an even number of them, instead of adding, you get a positive, don’t you? This may be a specious argument, but so what? I decided to work on that premise. “What would you want me to do?” I said.

“Lurk, Mr Potts. You do lurk, don’t you?”

“I certainly do, but you might want to consider the cost.” I mentioned my fees, which caused her to make mock-horrified comments about telephone numbers and national debts before accepting my standard spiel about unsocial hours and danger. We agreed on three days of surveillance, starting the following morning. She produced a money clip from a pocket, paid cash in advance and left.

Staring at the blobs and curlicues on my desk, I evaluated the commission. I was still trying to dislike Margaret Tremayne, but couldn’t manage it. I seem to remember mentioning first impressions elsewhere, and never have been able to clarify my thinking in that respect. There are those who maintain that one shouldn’t change one’s initial views, as they’re based on instinct and therefore valid. I can’t fathom that one. The old girl was a queer stick, but I reckoned she was straight enough – and dammit, maybe she was right.

I wasn’t left in doubt for long. Having spent an afternoon and evening worrying about our universe, I called at the office the following morning, even later than usual. Well, I had a case and didn’t want to complicate matters by sitting around inviting another. After ditching the mail, which comprised several unbeatable offers, I footled around a bit, then geared myself up for snooping and was ready to leave when the phone rang. I’d hardly announced myself, when the already familiar squawk attacked my eardrum. “Mr Potts. Margaret Tremayne here. If you didn’t believe me before, I think you will do so now.” Was there a faint trace of emotion?

“I never said I didn’t believe you, Mrs T. What’s new?”

“Cyril has been returned, dead. He was poisoned.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. He was lying on the back doorstep this morning. I’ve just had him examined. He had ingested a toxin he could not have found naturally. Someone administered it. Need I elaborate?”

“No, I don’t think so. Now, you told me where you live and gave me Louise’s address. Please rest assured that I’m taking the matter seriously and that we’ll get to the bottom of it. I’ll be in touch.”

Temporarily sidelining my efforts to become a vegetarian, I wandered along the block and sustained myself with a mixed grill, then drove five miles northwards to Margaret Tremayne’s home. It was one of a line of grim stone fortresses and a perfect complement to its occupant. That gave me nothing but atmosphere, so I moved on a further four miles, this time southwest, parking a short distance from Louise’s classy ultra-modern bungalow.

Hovering unobtrusively in a suburban area isn’t easy but I believe I coped well enough. It was a long wait, but I wasn’t discouraged. This was summer and if there was to be a sneaky outing, it would probably be at night. In the driveway of Louise’s house, there was a dinky little bright-red French car.

Just after midday, a big maroon BMW swished up behind the smaller vehicle and a man got out. Hubby home for lunch? Forty minutes later, the large car left. Thereafter, nothing happened until 5.50, when the upmarket wheels returned. At seven, they left again. Another yawning gap left me thinking longingly of food.

Shortly after eleven, Louise – I recognised her from Margaret Tremayne’s description – emerged from the house, got into the little red car and moved off. I followed. Louise took the back roads, but it was soon clear that she was heading towards her stepmother’s place. There were several twists and turns on the way and not for the first time I agonised over the tailing problem – I wish these suave characters who do it so nonchalantly would impart a few tips. I mean, any competent driver keeps looking in the rear-view mirror and after a little zigzagging a persistent follower begins to look suspicious, don’t you think? I know I’ve touched on this elsewhere in the accounts of my cases. Sorry to bring it up again.

As we approached my client’s house, I fell back slightly. There was a narrow lane behind the line of Dragonwycks, giving access to the rear gardens, all bordered by dense hedges. It was here that Louise parked. I halted on the cross-street at the side, leaving my car out of sight of the French one. Further skulking showed me that Louise had switched off her car’s lights but left the engine ticking over. This was a traditional part of town, where people tended to turn in early, so most of the houses were in darkness. I legged it quietly to the Tremayne place. Full marks for thinking of rubber soles, Potts.

The wrought iron gate was open. Louise stood on the lawn, her right hand holding a stone of about tennis-ball size. It was no great feat to guess what she had in mind, but I didn’t intend to interfere until she’d committed herself. It was as well that I hadn’t wasted time – she didn’t. I was behind her for barely ten seconds when she wound herself up and heaved her missile at a bedroom window. It was a bull. The crash tinkle-tinkle was still going on when Louise whipped round and barged straight into my arms. It was probably the most startling experience of her life, but she was a vigorous lass and by the time I’d subdued her, the light was on upstairs and Margaret Tremayne was peering out of the shattered window. I identified myself and asked her to let us in. In less than a minute the back door opened and I shoved my captive into a brightly lit kitchen, where I got my first good look at her. She was about five-three and vastly overweight, with a pasty moon of a face.

I’d expected an outburst from Margaret, including a demand to know the meaning of all this. Wrong again. I don’t think anything would have greatly disturbed the Tremayne sang-froid. “This way,” she said, leading us into a front room and waving us to a couple of high-backed leather chairs. “You’ll take a drink, Mr Potts,” she commanded. I would. Without establishing my preference, she poured me a volume of whisky that a pike could have swum in – had she heard about private eyes? – a fairish belt of the same for herself and, to my surprise, a modest shot for Louise. “Please explain,” she said to me.

I explained. Margaret listened without a single interruption, nod or head-shake, which further increased my already rising opinion of her.

The few minutes that followed will be imprinted on my mind until I shuffle off the coil. Margaret laid into her stepdaughter superbly. No doubt the pen is mightier than the sword, but is the tongue mightier than either? There were biblical and Shakespearian asides galore, including something about the unkindest cut of all and I don’t know what else. But the voice was never raised. It was splendid, putting me in mind of a Royal Navy captain of, say, 1770. ‘I’ll see your spine for this, you mutinous dog. Commence punishment.’ Sorry, I’m getting carried away. Almost throughout the harangue, Louise blubbered, hands clasped to her face.

Finally, having reduced her erstwhile tormentor to continuous pathetic snivelling, Margaret turned to me. “I’ll see you out, Mr Potts.”

We went to the front door. “Thank you,” she said. “You have exceeded my expectations. I’m sorry you had to witness the finale.”

“Glad to help,” I said. “Now, you’re entitled to a refund. I’ll account –”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m more than satisfied.”

“As you wish,” I said. “If you don’t mind my asking, what will you do?”

“I am not a vindictive person. Higher forces will see to any retribution. I have done my earthly duty and I doubt that there will be any further trouble from Louise.”

“Mrs T.,” I said, “I had you pegged for a disagreeable old biddy, but I hope I’m big enough to admit my mistakes. You’re okay with me, although I think your vocal chords should have a dangerous weapons permit.”

For the first time since we’d met, I got a genuine smile, albeit a little wry. “Mr Potts,” she said, “I am seventy-four years of age and you are much younger. When life has buffeted you for a further thirty or forty years, perhaps you’ll be inclined to accept human foibles without insisting upon instant revenge for everything that others inflict upon you. Good night.”

Maybe it was that large blast of hard booze – I hadn’t had the gall to ask for something less corrosive – but whatever the cause, I drove back home, thinking about the idea of getting on with older women.

ECCENTRICITY

For many years, I’ve been a great believer in the idea of perfect timing. If one tries to do something at the wrong juncture, it will at best be difficult and at worst a complete failure, whereas if one does it at the right moment, things will flow smoothly. I don’t claim to have originated this notion and as a PI, was seldom able to put it into practice, but I submit that it’s true.

On a warm sunny day, I’d arrived at the office, as usual about thirty minutes late – not that I had any advertised hours, but when I wasn’t running around on a case, I was a nine-to-five man. No sooner had I ensconced myself behind the desk than I had a visitor – I felt like a doctor who’d assumed his position and rung a bell for the first patient. Timing again. The trouble was that I didn’t feel like receiving anyone. I was preoccupied.

The thinking had started the previous evening, when I’d begun to ponder on reincarnation. Well, after all, despite two intervening commissions I was still more or less fresh from my little adventure involving Margaret Tremayne – she of the cat-o-nine-tails tongue – who had alluded to higher forces exacting whatever comeuppance awaits us. That had got me pondering on such matters in general. It wasn’t my first foray into the field, but this time I was fully engaged and really wanted to know. I mean, when you think of the number of things you’d like to master in the course of a lifetime, or perhaps of correcting your mistakes, then consider that you have no chance of dealing with everything outstanding, you wonder about having another go, don’t you? It might not be too bad, but for the ghastly idea of trying to grow up again.

Let me be truthful here. I am mindful of the fact that some people who’ve achieved prominence – please don’t take this as a suggestion that I have – like to talk about the deprivations of their formative years. In terms of ups and downs, my childhood was about average, and I don’t recall having had more to complain about than did most of my contemporaries. Still, I sometimes think of the words of an elderly German woman I knew many years ago, who used to say: “They are not the smallest cares that are carried in the school satchel.” Right on the mark, don’t you think? Maybe we’ll come up with a way of producing people fully-fledged, say at twenty or so, complete with programmed memories of a virtual upbringing.

My cerebration had intensified when I’d thumbed through an atlas – I’ve long been a map freak – and noted in the preamble a graph showing the demographers’ best estimate of the growth of human population over recorded history. Of course, the experts could be wrong, but they know more than I do and I’m willing to accept their conclusions. It seems that as far as they can work out, our numbers plodded along for millennia on little more than a simple replacement basis – somebody died, somebody else appeared. Then things changed. At about the time I was born, the graph-line, which had been rising quite sharply for a while, suddenly started going almost straight up. To me, that seemed astonishing. I’d come into a world of about two billion people. At the time I’m speaking of, the figure was above twice that level and still rocketing. I reckoned that if all the souls that ever had been around were seeking bodies, we must be just about reaching balance. Then what? Apocalypse? But what if the experts were wrong? You’ll see why I was a little stressed.

Happily, thanks to my success in the Tremayne affair and the other two cases I mentioned, both minor winners, I was all right for the next meal and had decided that the future could do its worst. I was about to move on to other matters, when my den was invaded. The incomer swept – well, on account of his build, he couldn’t exactly sweep, but you know what I mean – through my antechamber. Without so much as glancing at my tattered magazines, he bowed his way into the presence. I say bowed because he was the tallest man I’d ever encountered one-to-one. He was, I reckoned, around six-eight and a beanpole; one-eighty at most was my estimate. This animated pipe-cleaner, clad in a white tee shirt, open light-blue anorak, faded blue jeans and scruffy black and white trainers, undulated towards me. His various parts seemed to be disjointed, as though proceeding at different speeds, then re-assembling themselves at the target spot. As to age, I put him at mid-twenties.

“Mornin’,” he said. “You Cyril Potts?”

“Guilty,” I said.

“What? Oh, guilty. Yeah, I get it. A joke, eh?”

I began to wonder whether his mentality was as unusual as his physique, but he looked like a prospective client. I mean, with that appearance he probably wasn’t a salesman. I waved him to a chair. I don’t know whether giraffes sit down back-end first, but if they do, I was looking at it. “Can I help you?” I said.

“I sure hope so.” His voice, like his upper garb, was pale-blue “My name’s Arnie Todd. There’s a guy been followin’ me around for two or three days. I’d like to know what he wants.”

“Have you considered asking the police?”

“Sure, but what with murders an’ rapes an’ all, they got enough to do, right? I can spare a few bucks, so I want you to look things over.”

This was good news. A simple job, it seemed. Yet, I had one of those feelings that came over me at times. Maybe it had to do with my man’s appearance. “Fair enough, Arnie” – I just knew he wouldn’t appreciate the Mr, Mr thing. “Now, I don’t want to be offensive, but are you up to anything that might attract this man’s attention?”

That brought a slow grin. “Nothin’ I know of,” he said. “I guess I’m just an ordinary guy. I make mattresses for a livin’. I stay with my folks, over the garage, an’ nothin’ much happens to me.”

“I see,” I said. “What about your free time? Anything odd there?”

He shook his head. “Don’t think so. I guess a guy like me” – he swept his body with a hand that but for the thin bones could have held a hundredweight of coal – “don’t go over too good with the dames. Side from that, there’s nothin’ I can think of. I wander around town a little an’ go to the pictures twice a week. Mostly, I just live quiet.”

I’d never come across a more ingenuous-seeming man. This looked like a gift of maybe a day or two of work. Yet, some of my most complex cases had started in apparently mundane ways. “Why don’t you just confront this fellow?” I said.

“Can’t rightly say,” he answered. “I guess I’m just shy. Don’t want to make a fuss. But I know I’m right. I’ve stopped a few times an’ looked back. Every time I do that, he stops, too. He pretends to be lookin’ in shop windows, ckeckin’ his watch or tyin’ shoelaces.”

“And you’re quite sure it’s always the same man?”

“Yes, I am. He’s a good bit older than me, short – five-fiveish – fat an’ goin’ bald. I can tell that ‘cause he doesn’t wear a hat. He always wears jeans like mine but newer, a padded red jacket and black sneakers. Oh, an’ he smokes cigars.”

Whatever other qualities Arnie Todd had, he sounded like a first-class witness. In my line of work, I’d encountered some beauties, including a middle-aged woman who’d claimed to have been followed by a ‘strange’ man, about six feet tall, brown-haired and smart-looking. I’d collared the fellow, who was five-eight, had hair as black as a raven’s wing and was dressed like a hobo. Yet she’d identified him without hesitation – which had surprised me more than anyone else, as he was her husband.

“Okay, Arnie,” I said. “Now, today’s Thursday. What are your immediate plans?”

“Nothin’ special.” he said. “I’m takin’ a piece of my vacation this week, so I’ll just be strollin’ around.”

“All right,” I said. “Give me your address and phone number and I’ll get onto it tomorrow morning.” He told me what I needed to know and we agreed that he would follow his intended course, then he paid me for two days in advance and left.

I was on duty at nine the following morning. The Todd place was a modest two-storey house in the uptown sprawl. Arnie emerged shortly after ten. As we’d arranged, he ignored his car. He gangled along the drive and headed towards the central shopping area. I followed, reminding myself that this was not the first case of its kind I’d handled. I thought in particular of the Gordon Prentiss matter I’ve already recorded – there’s a good deal of repetition in a PI’s life.

When Arnie began his amble around the stores, I parked and started my stealthy shadowing routine. For well over an hour I earned easy money, then our man turned up. My client’s description was accurate. The pudgy little fellow was dressed in a quilted scarlet jacket, blue jeans and black shoes. As far as I could tell, he seemed to be fortyish. The hair he had left was plastered across a soccer-ball head and yes, he was smoking a cigar. He followed Arnie and I followed him.

The procession went on for over three hours, punctuated when Arnie called in at a restaurant, where he stayed for twenty minutes, while Redjacket hovered across the street, munching something he took from a paper bag he’d been carrying. Finally, Arnie walked back towards home. Our man trailed him for a while, legging it to keep up. Then, apparently satisfied, he turned off down a side street. I’d been following in the car and put on a spurt, wanting to see where the little fellow went. I took the same turn-off as he had. He wasn’t in sight. All I saw was the black rear end of what must have been a long car, turning into another byway. I zoomed after it, swung into the same street – and found a stretch of emptiness. I cruised along hopefully, but the big vehicle had vanished in the suburban maze.

To be honest, I wasn’t proud of myself. I mean, I could have accosted Redjacket at any time in the last two hours. I tried to rationalise my inaction by telling myself that I didn’t want to confront him in a busy public area, as that might have been embarrassing all round. The truth is that I was spinning the matter out to justify my two days’ pay.

On the way home, I sought entertainment on the radio, but aborted the effort after listening to two disc jockeys telling me what they were about to offer. Without wishing to be curmudgeonly, I can’t help wondering whether there are any other people who attack their work with the brainless zeal exhibited by some DJs. Do they start spinning a disc, then roll back their castored chairs to an in-house physician who gives them a shot of neat effervescence, to prepare them for the next burst of vivacity? I really must stop going along these mental byways.

That evening, I phoned Arnie, telling him I was persuaded that his suspicion was well-grounded. I suggested that we find a spot where we wouldn’t cause a scene. We decided on a plan of action for the following day, then I went back to my pad, cogitating on karmic matters.

I must say that Arnie Todd was the ideal client. He did everything just right. When I’d indicated that we needed to lure our man to a quiet place, he’d pointed out that there was an old warehouse, due to be demolished, about halfway between his home and the shopping precinct. The work hadn’t begun and the spot was usually deserted. We arranged that Arnie would try to get Redjacket to follow him there, then I would step in.

It worked well. On the Saturday, the three of us more or less repeated Friday’s movements for a while, then Arnie sauntered off towards our destination. Redjacket followed him and I tagged along in the rear.

When he got to the warehouse, Arnie walked along its full length, then turned the corner, to take up the position we’d agreed on. Dumpy was still in pursuit, and when he rounded the end of the building, I sidled after him, moving slowly to allow for developments. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. The timing was perfect – there we go again – the right moment. As I poked my head around the corner, Arnie was facing my way, looking bemused. Redjacket had his back to me. His arms were outstretched in what seemed like entreaty. He was obviously speaking with some animation but all I caught was: “. . . and if you don’t, you’re finished here and now. I’ll drop you –”

That was enough for me. For the severalth time, I’d forgotten my gun, but I stepped up behind my man and applied a thumb to his kidney region. “Hold it,” I snapped. “I have a stick of celery here and I’m not afraid to use it.”

Shorty went right into the spirit of things. “Okay,” he said. “You got me. Just don’t give it to me in the back. I’d like to see you before I go. And anyway, couldn’t you have made it a carrot? I mean, celery, for God’s sake.” His tone was not entirely serious.

“All right,” I said. “Face this way. Keep your hands open and in view.”

He turned, flinging out his already extended arms still further, in complete supplication. But what was I to make of his eyes? They seemed to suggest a combination of mischief and humour. I simply couldn’t detect a threat. Naturally, he saw at once that I had no weapon. “Where’s your gat?” he said.

“Gat?”

“Gat.”

“What?”

He registered incomprehension. “Your iron. Your rod. Your piece. Your stick? You do speak English?”

I was taken aback, but wavered only for an instant. “Never mind that. What goes on here?”

“Who are you?” he said.

“I’m asking the questions here. Now, give.”

“Just a minute,” he said. “Let’s do this right. You didn’t say ‘reach’ or ‘freeze’.”

“All right. Reach and freeze.”

“Make up your mind,” he said. “If I’m reaching, I can’t freeze at the same time, can I?”

“Good point. Reach first, then freeze.”

He obliged. “That’s fine,” I said, beginning to tire of this vaudeville routine. “Now, what’s what?”

“No problem. I was just telling Stilts here what a future he has in –”

That was as far as he got when we were interrupted by the feathery swish of well-bred rubber on concrete. I turned to see a black limousine, marginally shorter than the warehouse. A middle-sized, extremely natty fellow got out of the front passenger seat. Dark-blue suit – custom-made for sure – black shoes polished to high shine, white shirt and blue tie with silver stripes. From somewhere near the limo’s stern two hefty, grim-looking lads emerged.

Smartypants approached. I was prepared to defend my life, even without celery, but he didn’t seem to have hostile intentions. “So glad I arrived in time,” he chirruped. “I hope Teddy hasn’t been troubling you.”

“Teddy? Troubling?” I said, having language difficulties.

He extended a hand towards Redjacket. “Ah, it seems you haven’t been introduced,” he said. “Allow me to present Teddy Whitley. And you are?”

Still dazed, I gave him my name and Arnie’s, telling him my occupation and what we were doing there. My client stood, arms akimbo, even more puzzled than I was.

His Dapperness smiled. “I see,” he said, flicking a forefinger at his two companions, who moved in behind Redjacket. “Now, Teddy,” he said, “your mother needs you. Please go along.” The heavies, taking an arm each, frogmarched their charge to the car.

“I’m sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced,” said Mr Upmarket. “My name is Harland. I keep an eye on Teddy. Unfortunately, I lose him occasionally. This is a case in point. I imagine he was propositioning your client?”

Since I didn’t know what Teddy had been doing, I turned to Arnie for an explanation, but he seemed to have been rendered speechless. Harland wasn’t. “I think I can guess,” he said. “In view of your height, I suppose it was probably basketball, Mr Todd?”

At last, Arnie spoke. “Right,” he said. “He was goin’ on about a career in –”

“Quite,” Harland interrupted. I’m afraid that Teddy is given to delusions. At present, he’s a freelance talent spotter. Last week, he was pursuing a very large man, whom he fancied as a member of a proposed football team. It was quite trying. My associates were obliged to . . . er . . . subdue the gentleman. Of course, he was compensated. A month ago, it was a young lady – a Hollywood prospect, in Teddy’s view. That was more costly.”

I shook my head. “Shouldn’t he be in some kind of secure place?” I said.

“I hope it won’t come to that,” Harland replied: “Usually he’s harmless – though he was once Ghengis Khan for a week, which was difficult. Teddy is the only child of the Whitleys, who are quite wealthy. If he’d come from a lower social stratum, he would probably have been considered a nuisance to the public. As it is, he’s regarded as eccentric. Now, please allow me to apologise again and to defray your expenses.” He hauled out a wallet and extracted from it a thick swatch of bills. Here’s my chance, I thought. I reckoned I could have tapped him for a week, but thinking of my code, I decided to settle for four days, so gave him the figure.

“Most satisfactory, Mr Potts,” he said. “You might have tried to milk the situation excessively, but you’ve been quite reasonable. I happen to know that the case has occupied you for only two days, but let us not have a scene. Irrespective of what you receive from Mr Todd, I’m agreeable to four days from my resources, assuming that he is prepared to consider the matter closed.”

Arnie was out of earshot, which I thought was just as well, since he’d already become a sideshow at what should have been his big event. I spoke for him. “I’m sure he’ll go along.”

Harland beamed. “So good of you to understand,” he said, handing over the greenery. “I apologise again for any inconvenience. Now, I must be on my way.”

He went back to the car, leaving my client and me in the desolate surroundings. Thinking in terms of good PR, I pointed out to Arnie that he’d paid me for two days and that we hadn’t fully used up the second one. I offered him a proportional refund. He demurred, but I thrust it upon him, using part of the loot I’d just received from Harland. I was well over three days’ pay ahead and had a happy customer. Good business all round.

HEIRESS

It was another one of those times when there was nothing to do but think. No current cases, no paperwork outstanding, my library books all read and due back that day, but not during office hours – such recklessness might have caused me to miss a client. I never was one for puzzle games and I’d temporarily had enough of playing myself at chess. The trouble there is that you should always get a draw. If you start winning, it’s time for auto-analysis before some shrink comes along to take over. Outwitting oneself isn’t right, right?

To help my thinking, I’d been staring out of my office window, viewing the elements with some satisfaction. There was no weather of note, which suited me nicely. It was just a day, neither hot nor cold, with no sun, rain, wind, snow or ice. I wished every day would be the same. Give me a light high overcast, a middling temperature and no nasty stuff, neither enervating heat, nor bone-crushing cold, and especially no precipitation. Sometimes I think that we aren’t the products of earthly evolution. If we are, why should we be so sensitive to every twist and turn of nature? But such deliberation never gets me far. If we didn’t evolve here, we did so elsewhere, which amounts to the same thing, wouldn’t you say?

Anyway, that wasn’t the main subject of my musing. What I’d really been trying to do was make sense of human history. I wondered why it seemed to be a depressing succession of conflicts. That didn’t make sense to me then and doesn’t now. I’ve lived in three different countries and like to think that the vast majority of people everywhere just want to get on with their lives in peace, neither repressed nor agitated by crackpot leaders – especially those with territorial ambitions. What are you to do with a vanquished foe who has a different culture, language and perception from yours? Why not talk more and fight less? Down with tyrants and up with democracy was my cry. There I go again, digressing – or I would be if I’d made a start. Furthermore, I keep asking questions, which you might be kind enough to regard as rhetorical. What we need here is focus.

I’d just about got all my ducks lined up in these matters of weather and history when I noticed that my waiting chamberette had been invaded by a visitor. Would wonders never cease? Damn, another question. There was a knock at the door of the sanctum. I grabbed my stage-prop work-in-progress file, looked studious and bawled an invitation. The door opened, admitting a most admittable entrant. She was, I guessed, thirtyish, about five-eight, slim, with a bell of smooth black hair. The complexion and facial contours were just so. Though no expert in sartorial matters, I was impressed by the lady’s dress sense. She wore a plain, light-grey jacket, skirt and blouse that I rated at a large chunk of average annual income – mine, anyway – plus accessories which would have accounted for the rest. “Good morning,” she said. “I assume you are Cyril Potts?”

The voice tallied with the appearance – low, dark, smooth, flowing, seventy per cent cocoa-butter content. “Correct,” I said. “Please take a chair.”

She sat, pulling in her legs, leaving the knees slightly aslant and partially covered. I would have preferred a shorter skirt, but that was merely lust. Her hands held a small fortune in deceased crocodile, topped by a thin clasp of what I guessed was real gold. Never mind the wear and tear – she probably didn’t use any handbag more than one day a month. The shoes seemed like other bits of the late reptile. “You appear to be busy, Mr Potts,” she purred. “I wonder if you might have time to investigate the death of my father?”

I closed the file. “Possibly. Who are you?”

“My name is Amanda Thornton.”

Thornton! In this town, that name had some resonance. Could she be connected with the recently deceased Anthony Thornton? If so, I was in socially elevated company. The old boy had left us a few days earlier, apparently as a result of self-administered poison. He’d been quite a figure in the local business world. Not the quintessential tycoon, as he’d inherited his construction company, but a substantial presence and undoubtedly a multi-millionaire. And I seemed to recall he’d been a widower with one child, a daughter.

Still, there was this ‘Amanda’ thing. That troubled me. I once had a ladyfriend who was into names and numbers. She’d told me that I should watch my step when dealing with females whose names were dominated by the letter A. When it’s fifty per cent, be particularly careful, especially as the number of letters increases, was her advice. Offhand, I couldn’t think of anything to beat Amanda. I tried, thinking of Anna (too short), Arabella, Araminta (both under fifty per cent) and one or two others. Later, I came up with Amalia, but wasn’t sure whether that was fair. If you’ve any better offers, please don’t let me know – the above-mentioned lass and I parted after a brief liaison and I don’t want too many reminders of what might have been. Also, I don’t wish to offend any Amandas. I’m simply passing on what I heard, which may have been a baseless assertion.

“Ah,” I said, a little too loudly. Then I stopped, momentarily tongue-tied.

My visitor presented me with a mock-demure smile, plus another welcome half-inch of knee. “What does ‘ah’ mean, Mr Potts?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just wondering whether you’re in some way –”

“My father was Anthony Thornton,” she broke in. “I thought it best to tell you that immediately. He died last week.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I heard that he’d left us. My condolences.”

“Thank you. Now, you indicated that you may be available. Could you start at once?”

She was clearly the no nonsense type. “I’m working on two cases,” I said – may God forgive me – “but I might be able to shuffle things around. However, you have me puzzled. I heard that Mr Thornton died by his own hand.”

She inclined her head a fraction – people in her stratum of society don’t actually nod. She also adjusted her pose – not exactly fidgeting, but showing a little more leg – quite distracting. “That’s correct, Mr Potts. However, the police have been asking some rather pointed questions, for reasons which are clearer to them than to me. As the sole beneficiary of any consequence, I wish to make every effort to dispel whatever doubts the authorities may have. I really can’t imagine why there should be any complication, but I would like to demonstrate that I have taken every step within my power to establish that nothing improper occurred, and I shall not rest until the affair has been examined by an independent party.”

That was original. I mean, why should this woman be seeking my services in what seemed an open and shut case? Somehow, I seemed to detect a whiff of something not quite kosher in the air. Don’t ask me why. It’s just a sense one gets after years of sniffing around in places where the average nose doesn’t venture. “Very well, Ms Thornton,” I said. “Now, I think it’s important to take in the scene. Could we get together at your father’s house?”

“Certainly. I still live there. If you’re ready, we can go now.”

I’m usually presentable, so after I’d done a little tie-straightening and rubbing of shoes against trouser-legs, we left. Ms Cool had arrived by taxi, so we took my car. It was a six-mile drive to the Thornton residence, which I’m pleased to report was not on some ‘Heights’. I know I’ve mentioned this elsewhere, but one gets allergic to places called Heights in a town that has only a few humps, barely worthy of the name. Maybe it’s a social north-south thing.

I’d like to say the house was Gothic, but to me that implies both gloom and isolation, and this place, or rather its garden, fronted onto a main road. Still, it had bags of dark atmosphere and the odd turret, so I maintain that it was as near Gothic as suburban life gets. The huge pile of rough-dressed sandstone looked as if it had been designer-blackened in an English mill town. It was the sort of place to which one expects to be admitted by an elderly retainer, portly yet somehow lugubrious, but Ms Thornton had her own key. She led the way into a sitting room and after inquiring into my taste in drinks, produced an excellent sherry for me – your every need fulfilled – and something short and colourless for her.

She hadn’t bothered to ask about my rates and the clock was ticking, so I thought it best to move things along. “Forgive me, Ms Thornton –”

“Amanda, please,” she interjected.

“Very well,’ I said. “Call me Cyril. I was about to say that I’m still at a loss here. You said the police are prying and you don’t know why?”

I’d expected a shrug, but Amanda didn’t oblige. “I don’t pretend to grasp the official mentality,” she said. “However, the butler went to my father’s study to call him for dinner. When there was no response, he went in and found Dad sprawled over the desk, dead. Near his right hand was a small bottle, which it was found had contained cyanide. He was sixty-eight, and even though we’d been together all my life, I won’t try to guess what goes on in the mind of an elderly widower. All I can tell you is that he had been very dispirited since my mother died, three years ago.”

“I see. And as far as you know, the poison is the only reason why the forces of law and order are so interested?”

Now she did shrug, and I understood why she didn’t make a habit of it. Coming from such an elegant creature, it seemed out of character. “So it would appear. There is nothing untoward about the matter, but I wish to demonstrate that I shall not feel comfortable until this matter has been clarified to the authorities’ satisfaction.”

I was bemused. She’d mentioned this ‘wish to demonstrate’ thing twice and it didn’t sound right. I mean, why the necessity?” It seemed like over-compensation.

We tossed the matter to and fro for a while, including the question of my fees – which moved her about as much as a fly on a wall in China would have done – then I inspected the study, learning nothing. I left, promising to strain my sinews on the case. By then it was dark. I went back to my car, which was parked in a side street facing the Thornton house. Here, events took an odd turn.

I’d meant to move off right away, but the fact is I wasn’t feeling well. Maybe it was the prospect of work to do, which represented a sudden change from my modus vivendi at the time. Anyway, I sat for a while before deciding to leave. I was about to do that when a big white Mercedes swished through the Thornton gateway. That struck me as odd, since Amanda had directed me to my parking spot. Why there, when the conventional approach was so obvious? Maybe she’d just wanted to avoid a traffic jam at the house.

The car disgorged a tall broad fair-haired hunk. He walked – I thought a little unsteadily – to the front door and went into the house without knocking. Maybe he was a cousin, but somehow, I didn’t think so. I was even less disposed to that view a minute later, when he entered an upstairs room and Amanda rushed towards him with open arms, then stopped, turned and hurried over to close the drapes. Drat!

Some say that much of a PI’s work is hunch, born of experience. I confess that on this occasion, neither of those factors was involved. I was just dawdling. Half an hour later I was still on the spot, thinking, when Mr Shoulders came out of the house, went back to his car and reversed into the street. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought, deciding to follow him. I really don’t know why. I mean, if he was suitor, why not? Apart from being a notable heiress, Amanda was a stunner. For a moment, I had the slightly delirious vision of admirers standing in line around the house.

I followed my man southwards and after a four-mile drive he turned off into the parking lot of a booze dispensary. There’d been little traffic around and as we’d taken a couple of byways, he’d probably noticed that I was right behind him. If he had, it didn’t matter. I know I’ve mentioned this tailing business more than once, but it was quite a headache. I drove on for about a minute, then returned, entered the lot and halted close to my man’s wheels.

Cars parked in darkness are a piece of cake – PI Manual, Lesson Eight: Stationary Vehicles’. In less time than it takes to tell I had, as they say, effected entry – okay, the doors weren’t locked. My rummaging told me that the man was Frank Tetley and that he lived three miles from the drinkery. Nothing else. He seemed to be the neat type.

As I walked in, Tetley was lurching over to a booth, chewing on something short and dry. My, he was big; about six-four and as wide and deep as they come. I ordered a beer, carried it over and sat opposite him, asking if he minded.

“Yeah, I mind,” he said. “It’s a big country. Go somewhere else.”

“Now, now, Frank,” I said. “I really –”

“How do you know who I am?” he snapped. Petulant.

“It’s my business to know things,” I said. “Talk to me about Amanda Thornton.”

He worked up an angry, purplish flush, so I added ‘choleric’ to the assessment. “How about I just tag you one?” he growled. “Left jaw, say around five o’clock.” His speech indicated that the current drink was far from his first that day.

I chuckled. “Calm down,” I said. “You’re a big lad, but I’m a rough-houser by trade. You wouldn’t get near.” In retrospect, I was amazed at my own audacity. If he’d really walloped me, I’d be still circling the Earth at a height of three feet.

My effrontery worked. “What do you want?” he said.

“Just a few words about you and Amanda,” I answered mildly. You don’t have to talk, but if you refuse, I’ll draw my own conclusions.”

“I should still swipe you,” he said, his delivery slurred more than somewhat. A man loaded with liquor should try to avoid alliteration, especially with sibilants.

Tetley had, it seemed, acquired his bulk at the cost of his intellect. After pacifying him with a few more words, I began to stow more of the hard stuff into him, working on the male bonding thing. I got quite a lot out of him. When I judged he was far enough gone, I needled his ego. I won’t tell you how – the technique’s a trade secret, to be used only on drunks – but it did the trick and he insisted on our returning to the Thornton residence. We’d clear up this nonsense, wouldn’t we?

Within an hour of our first words – and after I’d chugged along in the wake of some erratic driving by Frank – we were back at our starting point, where a surprised Amanda let us in. Had the butler already retired to his nook, or was this his day off? We went into the room I’d been in earlier.

The involuntary hostess was dressed in something light, long and flowing, which I can’t accurately describe – remember I’d taken a few belts, too. I think it verged on the diaphanous, with some sort of pale floral motif. “What’s going on?” she said, with a note of sobriety which I thought altogether unwarranted at that time of evening.

Although I say it myself, I was rather good. “Amanda,” I replied, “I’ve returned your boyfriend, sound in wind and limb, except for the wind bit. Come to think of it, the limb department’s a little below par, too. Now, what the hell is this all about?” Always answer a question with a question.

She shot a withering look at Tetley. “You’ve been talking, haven’t you?” she snapped.

“Listen, Mandy,” he mumbled, “I only said –”

“I can imagine,” Amanda interjected. “And I’ve told you not to call me that? Your being drunk is no excuse.” She turned to me. “Where do we stand now?”

I was far from clear where we stood, but wasn’t inclined to confess. This was a time for bluffing. “Your paramour has been spilling beans,” I said. I probably stumbled over the ‘paramour’, but must have been convincing enough. “I guess I know more or less everything. Look, Amanda, I’m not a moral policeman, but I think it would be best all round if you’d give me your version. As long as no crime has been committed in the legal sense, the matter needn’t go beyond this room.” I hooked thumb at Frank the Feeble. “By the way, how did you get attached to him?”

“Indoor athletics,” she whipped back, giving her boyfriend a look which could have curled a thick steak. “Are you a family man, Cyril?”

“No,” I said. “Ties can lead to vulnerability.” That was another word I shouldn’t have tried, but I got away with it.

She inclined her head. Still not an outright nod, so she remained in charge of herself. “Very well. So perhaps you don’t understand generational stresses. The fact is that my father had outlived his usefulness. You don’t need every detail. I told you he’d been depressed since my mother’s death. In fact, he was a broken reed, but with respect to me he was unnaturally possessive. Having lost his wife, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing his daughter, too. He persisted in finding fault with every man I invited home. His attitude became irrational. To put it bluntly, his time had come. When it happened, Frank – incidentally, my father loathed him – was there for effect only. A big muscular type, you see. We simply induced an ageing man to face certain facts unpalatable to him. There was this bottle on his desk –”

“Wasn’t that a little too convenient?” I said.

She smiled, and I’ll admit I’d have been less uncomfortable facing a grinning tiger. “Don’t try to fathom that one, Cyril. Just accept that the poison was my father’s idea. He did what Socrates had done, long ago – I think it was 399 B.C., and in that case the drink was hemlock.” It sounded like she’d been studying. “What my father took was . . . well, I’ve already told you. So you see, there was no crime. It was just a matter of an old, lonely man precipitating the inevitable.”

“I see,” I said. “What about my fee?” I was trying to register disgust, and to get out of that unhappy house; an even darker place inside than outside.

She stepped over to an armchair, picked up the handbag I’d seen that afternoon and fished out a wad of bills. She didn’t count them, just passed the lot over to me. I took my cue from her. Without checking, I knew that I was handling ten times my charges for a day. The noble types must deal with such things as they see fit. I pocketed the loot and made for the door, taking a last look at the lean, predatory Amanda and the glassy-eyed, dimwitted Frank, the white woman’s burden.

This dismal tale was far from the zenith of my career and I wouldn’t have told it, but for what happened later. About six months after the incident I’ve recorded, Frank Tetley died from injuries he sustained on being heaved through a third-floor window by a man much smaller – and apparently far tougher – than he was. It seemed that as a result of being crossed in love, or what passed for it in his book, Tetley had become a muscle-bound wreck. Less than a year later, Amanda Thornton-Barnes, who hadn’t wasted time in tying the knot, perished on crashing her car into a gatepost of the ancestral pile – she hadn’t moved house – when returning alone from an evening’s revelry. The word on the street was that she was deep into drugs. Poetic justice?

By the way, I fouled up with the library books, returning them a day overdue. That’s just not right.

I just read your first chapter (section: Footwear) and it was great. Mr. Potts had started the tale as an interesting enough character to keep me reading on. The case was petty enough to keep me reading as to what the shoe case was leading to. Your reveal of the publication ruse ended the tale on a happy note.

For an introduction to the personality of Mr. Potts (ethically and eccentrically set apart from other detectives) it was done well. It makes me wonder how he handles other cases, and opens the door as to why he is able to receive business in the future. A good statement in an undercover consumer digest story will increase his business.

Good job.
ALSO: I wanted to post my thoughts after the first tale before I read onward as to not taint my initial thoughts with more than your introductory chapter.

As far as the humor goes, it's a very subtle humor based around lots of small oddities. I know I'm amused by this approach, and can only assume that other readers will take to your subtlety. It certainly isn't the humor of punching the joke or sitcomesque awkwardness that many people have become used to. How have the reactions been in that regard? (That's not rhetorical. I'm interested.)

EXTORTION

Just as I was about to leave for lunch, the phone rang. Ah, a prospective client, I thought – business calls far outnumbered personal ones. Paradoxically, despite being low in the funds department, I wasn’t really hoping for a case. First, it was a wet and windy day and I didn’t want to go out. Second, I was thinking. The subject was density. Not the mental kind, you understand – I was grappling with nuclear physics.

Being surprised was not new to me, but I’d been particularly startled to learn that nearly everything is, by normal reasoning, emptiness. I’m not referring to the great extraterrestrial void, but to the things we encounter daily. I’d thought that iron was pretty tightly packed stuff, and was aware that some other metals were more so, but had been taken aback to learn that even these substances consist mostly of vacant space. I’d been reading about neutron stars. In case you don’t know – and if it’s any consolation, I didn’t – the idea is that atoms have nuclei, surrounded by electrons, and that what lies in the relatively large gap between these two parts is pretty well nothingness. I won’t go into detail because I don’t know how, but in certain extreme circumstances, the electrons are stripped away and the nuclei get together – and that’s density. If one could get a cupful of this stuff, it would weigh millions of tons. Awesome, what?

I’d chewed this over for some time before hitting upon a convincing analogy. Think of a bicycle wheel. When it’s static, you can put a hand through the spaces between the spokes. Then, if you start to turn the wheel, you can’t do that. If you get it spinning fast enough, you are for all practical purposes confronted with a wall. Having worked out this comparison all by myself, I reckoned that I might get other clever ideas. You’ll appreciate that I needed time to ponder.

I picked up the phone – one day I was going to do that and bark: “Hawkins,” or “Hawkshaw,” or anything with ‘Hawk’ in it. “Cyril Potts,” I said.

“Good morning, Mr Potts. My name is Barbara Newby. I’m personal assistant to Commodore Philip Kenny. Perhaps the name is known to you.”

I liked the voice, an upmarket English one unless I was mistaken. The tone was low, melodious, soothing – I could have gone to sleep on the spot. A woman of mature years, I guessed. As for Commodore Kenny, who hadn’t heard of him? He was one of our most prominent citizens. I’d long assumed that he’d reached his position after decades of naval service, but that was before I heard that the rank of commodore in the US Navy was suspended for many years after World War Two. On learning this, I’d converted to the idea that maybe Kenny had got his title the honorary way, by being president of our yacht club – though inland, we do have one. Well, we’re served by a navigable river and there’s a sizable lake nearby, so I suppose that’s good enough.

I never got round to enquiring into the commodore’s seafaring credentials, but do remember that shortly after my dealings with him, he surprised many people by selling his house and moving to the coast, so perhaps he did have brine in his veins. And anyway, wasn’t landlocked Hungary governed for a couple of decades by an admiral? Can’t you just see him standing proudly at the stern of a rowing boat on Lake Balaton? Beg pardon, I’m drifting.

Kenny had considerable business interests and at the time I’m speaking of, he owned several companies, including a boatyard and a sawmill – probably connected, I imagined – and had a slew of high offices in other organisations. He was also quite a social animal, always opening this, attending that, or officiating somehow at the other event. A high profile chap.

The thought sped through my mind that this was perhaps the naval phase of my life, as only two or three years earlier I’d had an exceptionally vivid dream featuring an admiral, in a case I recorded earlier. So, the connection was tenuous, okay?

Back to Ms Newby. “Let me see,” I said. “Oh, yes. I believe I did hear it somewhere.” Casual. That’s the way to deflate ‘em.

If I’d ruffled Newby, it didn’t show. “The commodore asked me to call you in the hope that you might be able to visit him about an urgent matter. Unfortunately, he has a tight schedule, but has a brief open period this afternoon. Would it be possible for you to come here at about three o’clock?”

It wasn’t too subtle. I could almost hear Kenny speaking: ‘Don’t offend this Potts fellow, but make it clear that he’s not in our social stratum. He calls on us, not we on him. Tell him anything, but get him here.’

I decided it was time for me to reply in kind. “Well, as it happens, I have a client at 1.30,” I lied, “but I can manage three o’clock. That’s if the commodore lives in or around town.” I knew where his home was, but made a show of taking directions.

I got there on the dot. The house was on one of our few modest elevations, the grounds sweeping down to the road and surrounded by a low stone wall. The black wrought-iron gates were wide open to a wide driveway of red gravel, The main structure – there were several outbuildings – was a modern two-storey job and smaller than the Pentagon. It was designed to impress, and it did. My preferred pedestrian arrival wouldn’t have worked here, and anyway, what red-blooded male would pass up the chance of letting his wheels crunch along such an approach?

I was admitted by a tall thin sad-looking fellow, who did the ‘please follow me’ bit, then buttled off across the hall and along a couple of corridors, carpeted with green stuff that looked as though it might need regular mowing. He stopped at a door which looked like solid beechwood. Having announced me, he slid out and I slid in. The room was about twenty-by-fifteen feet, equipped as an office, with filing cabinets and an intimidating array of machinery. The focal point was a big desk of the same wood as the door. Behind it was a woman of, I guessed, fifty-five or so. She stood and gave me the smile she probably used a lot, pleasant, but cool. She was around five-seven and had at least her full share of avoirdupois, nicely spread under a green cable-knit sweater and beige skirt. That was all right by me. If I had type at all, it wasn’t sylph-like. The grey-sprinkled hair was set in a ruthlessly corrugated perm. “Mr Potts,” she said. “So good of you to make time for us – and punctual, too.”

Pointing at my shoes, half-covered in the carpet pile, I chuckled. “I’d have been early, but I forgot my scythe.” I thought that might have thrown her, but as I should have learned from our earlier talk, Barbara Newby was not easily disturbed. “Do you mind my asking how you came upon me?” I said.

“It was a combination of the yellow pages and numerology. I have a certain instinct which has served me well.”

While I was trying to think of a reply, she pressed an intercom button, told her boss that I’d arrived and showed me into a connected room, similar in size to the outer office, but without the ironmongery. There was a desk like Newby’s but bigger. Behind it was a massive red-leather winged throne and in front four visitors’ chairs, similar in style to the master’s seat but smaller. My host stood briefly to greet me. He was, I guessed, about the same age as his secretary, around five-nine, wearing a dark-blue suit, a white shirt and a plain dark-red tie. This is the point at which I should be talking about the seamed sailor’s visage, especially the blue eyes, faded by years of scanning far horizons. In fact, the face was square, fleshy, almost unlined and bland. The eyes were brown. Call me faddish if you like, but I’ve had bad experiences with brown-eyed men and wasn’t encouraged – no offence intended, but I must offer an accurate record.

“Glad you could come at such short notice, Mr Potts,” he said, motioning me to any seat of my choice.

I took one of the inner two. “Good afternoon, Commodore,” I said. “I assume you prefer the naval title?”

He gave me a smile which could have liquefied oxygen. “Not really,” he said, “but people seem to like it.

“I see.” I wasn’t sure whether I saw or not, and for no good reason, I was beginning to dislike Philip Kenny. “What’s amiss?”

“Something has arisen which threatens my position.”

“Ah,” I said. “Your timbers have been shivered?”

“Indeed.”

“Your rudder fouled?”

“Quite. And, Mr Potts, if you have any further such expressions, you may wish to unburden yourself. That might help us to settle down.”

No point in my going for mirth, then. “Sorry, Commodore. I didn’t mean to be flippant, but we landlubbers don’t get a crack at these things too often. I’ll try not to thwart your hawse again.” Ouch!

“I’ll get straight to the point, Mr Potts. This is the problem.” He produced an audio cassette and a recorder. “I’d like you to listen for a few minutes.”

There were two voices, one being the commodore’s fruity baritone. Kenny said some harsh words about a third party called Tom Broadhurst. After about ten minutes, my host switched off, handing me a note, pencilled in block capitals. I can’t remember the wording, but it was to the effect that if Kenny didn’t amass ten thousand dollars in small bills by six o’clock that evening, the tape would be passed on to where it could do most damage. There would be a phone call at seven.

“I see,” I said. “What’s the significance of this?”

He sighed from the shoes up. “I’m trying to close a large deal, Mr Potts. I have one proposal and my rival, Dixon, has another. Tom Broadhurst is chairman of the committee concerned. I won’t weary you with the internal politics, but he will have the swing vote. He knows my idea is the better one, but he dislikes me and would be delighted to have some reason, however tenuous, for coming down on the opposite side. If he hears what you have just heard, which was a casual talk with a friend, you can imagine how he’ll react. And the crucial meeting is three days away.

I nodded. “I see. But Commodore, isn’t this the land of the free, where a man can say what he likes?”

“You’re right, but speaking one’s mind can have consequences.”

“Understood. Now, how did this would-be blackmailer do his stuff?”

Kenny shrugged. “The conversation took place in my club. It’s a very traditional place and most of us have our regular seats. I imagine that this fellow, or an accomplice, got in somehow and planted a bugging device on my chair. The only one who might benefit is my opponent, Dixon. I suspect he engaged the rascal. The point is, have you any experience of extortion?”

“It comes up now and then,” I said. Since I’d never had anything to do with such things, that was a major solecism. “I’m not suggesting that we pay just like that, but if worse comes to worst, can you get the money together in time?”

“I have it now,” he said. “However, I’m not accustomed to being intimidated and I intend to resist. I’m simply trying to find a way of doing so without detriment to my wider interests.”

I nodded. “Okay. Now, the best course is for me to blast this character right away.”

“And can you do that?”

“I hope so.”

Kenny produced another huge sigh. “Very well. I’m in your hands.”

“Right,” I said. “Now, there’s the question of my fees.” I told him what they were and he dismissed them with a hand-flick. “You must take a lot of chances for your money,” he said. “You’ll not find me ungenerous if you can handle this situation. What do you suggest?”

I looked at my watch. “I have an idea,” I said, “but I need a plan B. I have to do a little work. Can we get together again around six?”

We agreed on the recess and I left, thinking hard. I was probably more at sea than Kenny ever had been. The bit about Plan B was flapdoodle, introduced to give me time to think about Plan A, which was most likely a clunker anyway. Still, it was a scheme of sorts, and necessity being the mother of invention, I’d come up with it quickly enough. Further brooding didn’t help.

When I returned to the commodore’s place there was no hold-up. The butler wasn’t around and I was received by Barbara Newby, who conducted me to her employer, then went back to her office. She seemed calm. Either she knew nothing, or her self-possession was admirable.

Kenny was like a cat on hot bricks. “Thank you for coming back,” he said. “What do we do now?”

“I’ll be frank. In my opinion we have only one chance, but we might pull it off. Now, is Ms Newby in your confidence?”

“Completely. You may say anything to her that you say to me.”

Thinking of the looks that passed between him – by the way, he was a widower – and the fetching Newby, I’d suspected that might be the case. “Good,” I said, “That helps. Now, let’s bring her in and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”

Barbara Newby joined us and I said what I had to say. Then there was nothing to do but wait.

The phone rang just after seven. Newby picked up the receiver, and I must say that if I get into a another tight situation, I’ll look her up. She was wonderful. The caller wanted Kenny, but she told him that the commodore was deeply distressed and under sedation, and that she’d be given carte blanche to act. I suspected that carte blanche was probably beyond our man, but she steamrollered on, pouring an avalanche of words over the fellow. Disorientating him with verbiage was, I thought, a clever technique. The position was horrifying, she said, but the terms would be met. She was all adither – brilliantly. Of course, the commodore could not deal with the matter himself, but his accountant, Mr Fisher – that was yours truly – would do the necessary. However, being purely a numbers man, he was nervous. Could the handover of cash and tape take place in a public area of the caller’s choice?

This caused the anticipated hiccup, but that again was handled superbly by Newby. She was aghast, tremulous, frayed, but steadfast. The commodore wished to cooperate, but there were limits. If the caller wouldn’t accept them, the deal was off and he must do as he saw fit. I couldn’t have done it half as well as Barbara did.

The fact that our man caved in suggested to me that we were dealing with a rank amateur. What professional would do business that way? I mean, where was the bit about the drop from a moving car, the use of a public phone at a shopping mall, or the hollow oak ten miles out of town?

Newby’s splendid obduracy having prevailed, we agreed on a meeting in half an hour at Jimmy’s, a spit-and-sawdust place on the Stagville Road.

As Barbara hung up, I grinned at my edgy client. “Coming up to eight bells, Commodore,” I said. His withering look told me that I’d put my foot in it again, but I didn’t care. Having assured him that we were dealing with a nitwit, I sent Barbara on ahead, with my hastily contrived instructions. I followed, bearing the cassette and a briefcase full of money. I donned plain hornrimmed glasses and arrived intentionally late, trying to appear even more timorous than I was. Our man, dressed as he’d indicated, was alone at a corner table, nursing a large whisky. I went to the bar, got a drink exactly like his, then joined him, fidgeting appropriately. He didn’t look too formidable, so I began to get optimistic. “Sorry I was held up.” I said. “I’m Fisher.”

“Okay,” he said. “You know the score. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” I took a pull at the Scotch. “Look, I’m a little lost here and I’m not much of a drinker, but in the circumstances I feel like a refill. Would you oblige?”

He sniggered, then crossed to the bar. While he was there, I exchanged our glasses, lowering his level to the same as mine. He came back with two more doubles. “Okay,” he said. “Now, how about it?”

I picked up the briefcase and allowed him a peek at the contents. “It’s all there,” I said. “We didn’t have much time to count it, but I think it’s correct.”

He was enjoying himself. “Right,” he said. “So we do the swap?”

“I believe so,” I said. “Can we just clarify?” I pulled the tape from the briefcase and handed it over to him. “Just to make sure that everything is properly conducted, would you care to check this?”

He was close to outright laughter as he turned the cassette this way and that, then passed it back to me. “One’s just like another,” he said. “Anyway, I have copies. So, we get on with it?”

“Very well,” I said. “I must confess that I’m not accustomed to this kind of thing. Presumably it’s not new to you?” I was doing all I could to seem perturbed. “I suppose you have what they call a record?”

“You’d better believe it. Don’t try anything fancy with me. I’ve a bunch of A and B cases behind me and I don’t mind racking up another.”

“A and B?” I said.

He grinned. “Assault and battery. You’re all adrift here, aren’t you?”

“Not quite,” I said, pulling off the glasses. “Have you ever heard of the SAS?”

He began to look uneasy. “Yeah,” he said. “A British tough-guy outfit. Seventeen ways to kill a man with one finger, right?”

“Actually, it’s mostly thumbs and there are only eleven ways,” I said. “And after eight years with that crowd, I know all of them.” That was pure tripe. “Now, it’s showtime. My name isn’t Fisher, but that doesn’t matter. You, my friend, are in deep doo-doo.”

Now he was wriggling. “What the hell do you mean?” he snapped. “You got nothing on me. We’re just two guys talking.”

“Not so,” I said. “What I have on you is a nice set of fingerprints, on the tape you sent to Kenny.”

“Crap,” he said, “It’s clean. I used glo –” then it hit him. He’d surely worn gloves originally, but he’d just pawed the thing, as I’d hoped he would. If one hands an object to someone else, the latter’s natural reaction is to grasp it. PI Manual, Lesson Eleven: Psychological Ploys. “That’s right,” I said. “You gave me the prints a minute ago. Also, you bragged about your past. Now, how long do you think it would take me to match the dabs here with yours on file? I also have your prints on this glass here – I just did a switch. By the way, I have a witness. Frankly speaking, as far the shakedown is concerned, you stink.”

At that point, Barbara Newby, responding to my ‘casual’ hair-ruffling signal, walked past us, pausing to wave a tape recorder in one hand and a camera in the other. I hadn’t noticed a flash, but assumed she was satisfied with the photo.

“Who’s that?” said my man, as Newby walked out.

“Insurance,” I chuckled. “Like this record of our chat.” I removed and waved the fake bug I’d stuck under the table. “Have I made myself clear?”

It was a pleasure to see him crumble in the silence that followed. “All right,” he mumbled finally. “You got me at my first try.”

“I thought so,” I said. “Let me fill in the blanks. Dixon hired you to compromise Kenny. How much did he offer?”

“Two grand.”

“The cheapskate,” I said. “So, you decided to go into business for yourself?”

“Right.”

“How did you get the tape?”

“Inside job. Friend of mine worked at Kenny’s club. He’s left the country, so you can forget about him.

“Why did he pick on the Commodore?”

“He didn’t. There’s a lot of loose talk in that place. He recorded most of it and passed the best bits to me. Anyway, what now?”

“My idea is to stick you feet-first into a vat of boiling oil and watch your face as you go down. Kenny won’t agree to that now, but he might change his mind. If he does, I can trace you – and I’d love to. Now, if you really have copies of this stuff, ditch them – they’ll be no use to you in your grave.

He shrugged. “So what gives?”

“Has Dixon paid you.”

“Not yet.

“He won’t now. He’s in bigger trouble than you are. You can go back into the slime. Any tricks and you’ll have me on your back. You wouldn’t like that. I haven’t failed so far and a hick like you wouldn’t blemish my sheet.”

Within half an hour I’d reported to Kenny and Newby. I returned the cassette and the commodore’s money, telling him that I’d terrified the aspiring extortioner and didn’t expect to hear any more from him. However, I wouldn’t take payment until I had a satisfied client.

I guessed I’d never be a fully subscribed member of the Kenny fan club, but to do him justice, he was generous. A week later, with the vital meeting behind him, he phoned me with news of a triumphant result, going so far as to say that he’d spliced the main brace – I deserved that one – with a tot of something from Jamaica. He sent me my fees, plus a bonus well beyond my highest hopes. As to the admirable Barbara, I’d have been pleased to continue our association, but bearing in mind the chemistry between her and Kenny, I guessed she was booked.

Dear Giantlobsterrobot,

Many thanks for your kind comments concerning the first of Cyril Potts’s adventures. Assuming you read on, I hope you will not be disappointed by his subsequent exploits. Cyril is not likely to challenge either Sherlock Holmes or Sam Spade, but he has his points. He gets some most unusual clients, which is not surprising as he is a most unusual private eye.

As for the reactions, I have not received many but most have been positive. I hope you will continue to enjoy the series. The twentieth and last story is to be posted this weekend.

With kind regards - Cj

PLATES

I was, as it is sometimes put, tired and overwrought, face down in the gutter and highly intoxicated – at not quite nine-thirty p.m. How that embarrassing situation came about is a matter that requires some explaining.

I’d set out that morning with no thought of an impending cataclysm, and had strolled into the office to face another day’s work, or rather to hope for it, as I didn’t have a case in progress. Not that the prospect of temporary professional idleness bothered me unduly. Over any reasonable period – say, three months on a running basis – I usually hauled in enough income to keep me going, though more often than not it was a close call. When I had no client, I occupied myself in my own unremunerative but demanding way. At the time, I was into languages. It was all very well, I thought, that English was spanning the globe, though I’d have been quite happy with a resurrection of Latin, or whatever – anything that lets us communicate.

During my stint in the RAF I’d acquired passable German, largely because I was in the police branch of the service and needed to liaise with the civilian authorities in North Rhine-Westphalia. I was wondering what next. Spanish looked like a good candidate. Perhaps it would be as well to grapple with something more taxing at the same time. I considered Chinese. There must be a case for ideographs. After all, they’ve served their users for many centuries and don’t seem to be an obstacle to advancement. Yes, I thought, let’s make it Spanish and Mandarin. Here, you might like to know that I made some progress with the former and am about to tackle the latter any year now. Well, there’s a limit to what any of us can achieve in one lifetime. We all have to deal with the trifling matter of getting by, don’t we?

My cranial gymnastics were interrupted by the phone. I’d begun to think that I’d done enough for one day, but a glance at the wall clock showed that it was 10.20. Having arrived at 9.35, I hadn’t yet given full measure.

I tried to get in my usual introductory spiel, but had barely started when I was interrupted. “Barney Shadbolt here.” It was a booming voice, suggesting that I should know something about the speaker.

“Excellent,” I said.

“What do you mean, excellent?”

“Well, it’s always nice to hear from someone who knows who he is in this confusing world.”

This brought a little harrumphing at the other end, then: “You talk funny.”

“No,” I snapped. “It’s most of the other people in this country who do that. I’m all right. As it happens, I was just thinking about language, but I’ll put that on hold if you have business in mind.” Okay, I was feeling baulky. I knew my telephonic skills needed a little work, but didn’t think this was the right moment.

My man huffed. “Fine. I’m Shadbolt, you’re Potts, right?”

“Yes. We’re shoulder to shoulder here. Not a glimmer of daylight between us. We really shouldn’t have to piece it together like this, but now that we’ve been properly introduced, who are you – apart from being Barney Shadbolt?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“How many more ways can I say it?”

“All right. No need to labour the point. Now, you’re maybe the second-best sleuth in this city, so I guess it’s time for you to get acquainted with your only superior. I run the XL Agency. Am I getting through?”

I’d heard good things about XL – the oldest outfit in town – but didn’t know that this man was in charge there. Maybe a little deference was in order, but I couldn’t quite manage it. “I’m with you,” I said. “You’re Barney Shadbolt, you run XL and you think you’re number one. I acknowledge no betters, but would you be so kind as to get to the point, assuming you have one?”

He laughed. “Pretty fair line of patter for an upstart, and a British one at that, if I’m any judge.” I liked the implication that he’d divined my background from a few words, when he’d probably known the score before calling. “Now, I bring you nothing but good news. I had a man in this morning, probably before you got out of the feathers” – ooh, that hurt – “and I’m too busy to handle his problem. I sent him along to you, and I hope you’ll remember that when you rake in the shekels.”

We exchanged a few more pleasantries which I don’t remember verbatim, the upshot being that I was to bate my breath and await a possible customer.

The man arrived twenty minutes after Shadbolt and I had diverted ourselves. Ignoring my admittedly ignorable waiting room, he entered the office. He was, I guessed, sixty-odd, about five-seven, with longish wispy white hair, a crumpled mid-brown suit, light-blue shirt, plain-front laced black shoes that hadn’t seen polish for some time and the sort of loud tie that some men of his vintage buy when they’re too shy to get a plaid shirt and too poor to acquire a red sports car. He was lugging a big brown-paper bag. The lined face wore a nervous look. I was pleased to note that he didn’t cast a disparaging eye over my layout. “You’re Potts?” he said.

I waved him to a chair. “Correct. I’ve been expecting you, if you’re from Shadbolt.”

“I am. “They couldn’t cope at XL and said you’re the next-best.”

That didn’t amuse me. “Okay. I’m just above bottom of the barrel. Thank you for the boost to my self-esteem.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I guess that came out wrong, but when you know what’s on my mind, you’ll understand. I have worries.”

I gave him the mini-nod. “Could be my province. Who are you?”

He muttered something about Monday night.

“Monday night?” I said, noting that this was a Wednesday morning and thinking that some patience might be required. “No. It’s your name I’m after.”

“That’s it. Mundy Knight.” He spelled it out. “Don’t bother with the cracks. I’ve heard them all. Some sense of humour my parents had.”

I sensed that as far as conversation was concerned we were getting out of the urban thicket and approaching the open road. Knight’s voice had the cracked edge that denotes severe stress. It was a little early, but I reckoned a drink would do no harm. Anyway, I’d be eating in a couple of hours, so we could call it a sort of aperitif. I took the sherry bottle and glasses from a desk drawer, poured two generous snorts and handed one to him. “Now, calm down.” I said. “You’re safe here. Have a nip and tell me all.”

While I was showing admirable restraint in toying with my glass, he knocked back his dose at one gulp. That seemed to indicate a refill, so I obliged, not without thought of the cost – the stuff from my preferred bodega wasn’t cheap. He took another belt, which seemed to settle him. Sighing, he delved into his bag, pulled out an oblong wooden box and shoved it across the desk. “Open that and you’ll see what it’s all about.”

I lifted the lid. Inside were four rectangular pieces of metal. I picked them up and assumed my intense gaze, then replaced them. “Hmn,” I said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but these seem to be plates for twenty-dollar and fifty-dollar bills.”

“Right,” he said. “They’re probably the best ever and they’re my work.”

“So, you seem to be in a position to literally make your own money. How do I come in?”

He showed me splayed hands. “Look, I’m an engraver by trade. I made these purely out of interest. I’d no thought of anything illegal. It was just a challenge. Then I happened to mention it at a little get-together of people in my business. Next thing I knew, Barton Stokes was leaning on me.”

I shook my head. “Barton Stokes?”

“You mean you don’t know him?”

“Oh, God,” I said. “Are you going to start now?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” I grunted. “It’s just that I’ve already been through this ‘don’t you know’ thing today. Tell me about Stokes.”

“Well, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. He’s a big operator on the wrong side around Hanbury, which is where I live. To keep it short, he wants my plates and he’s prepared to do whatever it takes to get them. Like I said, I did this for amusement. Now I have heavies on my back. I don’t know what to do.”

“What about the police?” I said, obviously knowing the answer in advance.

His eyebrows went up half an inch. “You can’t be serious. Imagine what they’d say to a man who produced this stuff. I’d never be able to convince them that it was no more than an artistic effort.”

“So,” I said, “we’re getting to the point. You can’t talk to the authorities, but you don’t fancy Stokes’ ideas of persuasion.”

He shuddered. “That’s it. Now, what can you do?”

This was a new one to me, but I prided myself that I wasn’t too disconcerted. “I can do plenty, Mr Knight. But there’s the question of my fees” – I hated that bit as much as ever.

He waved a hand. Don’t worry. I’m good for any costs. Just get me out of this.”

“All right,” I said. “I can see how money would be no problem to you if you can print it.” I hadn’t been wasting time as we’d talked. An idea was forming in my mind. “Okay, I’ll take the job. Now, have you booked in anywhere here?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have a room at the Parkway. Will that do?”

His choice was good; expensive but strong on security. “It’s fine,” I said. “Now, you’d better tell me how I contact this Stokes fellow, then leave the plates here and get back to your den. Stay put until you hear from me.”

He left and I pondered. It wasn’t too difficult. I knew little of these murky matters, but recalled that my old sparring partner Stan Hodges had, before he became an insurance investigator, spent some years with the police, mostly dealing with embezzlement, fraud and associated matters. He was sure to know something. I mentioned elsewhere in these tales that we’d been able to economise on effort now and then by exchanging tiresome errands. Time for a call – and for a little badinage with Stan, who lived in the boondocks well north of me and as it happened, not far from my client’s home town. Stan was as near to a hermit as a man can be, if he wants to make a conventional living.

The phone rang at least a dozen times, which was about par for the man, who’d probably been within hand-reach of the instrument. “Yeah?”

“Top of the morning to you, Diogenes,” I said. “I bring you greetings from the urban slime.”

“Ah, you must have the wrong number. My name is Franklin Loadacrap. I have no city friends.”

“My apologies, Mr Loadacrap,” I said. “I’m Ben Wrongroad. I didn’t know that the residents of Nowhereville were quite so reclusive. Now, could we stow the taradiddle and get to business?”

“What do you want, town-man?”

I gave him the details and begged for his help.

He groaned. “Oh, not another engraving job?”

“You mean they’re common?”

“About one a month, last I heard. Look, I’m not quite up to date, but I do have a contact who’s into these things. Can you run up here?”

“Right away,” I said. “This is life and death.”

“There’ll be a charge,” he said darkly.

“When isn’t there? I’ll be with you in a trice. No, better make it a thrice.”

When necessary, I could bustle around as well as the next man. Having metaphorically donned the deerstalker, I went along the block to my local grease galley for an early lunch. I continued to patronise the place despite having reservations about its gunge-laden offerings. It was closed for a time, owing to an allegedly roachy kitchen – a development which had surprised me, as the authorities didn’t seem to have paid much attention to the menu, which was undoubtedly far more lethal than any ancillary items conveyed inadvertently to the customers.

I got the car tanked up and, fully fuelled in both senses, covered a lot of miles at a speed I’d rather not record. Well, I was excited.

Maison Hodges – a bachelor pad – had the appearance of a homesteader’s soddy, but was in fact a strange combination of what seemed like rudimentary construction and high technology.

To my relief, Stan had got the ball rolling at his end and was ready to move. We drove off in convoy and were in his local metropolis in well under an hour. We wound our way through a warren of back streets, not exactly characteristic of straight-line America, but there you are. We stopped outside what, as an Englishman, I can only describe as a mews flat – sorry, apartment – in an understatedly classy area. I can’t think of any better way to put it, so I hope you know what I mean. It was – right down to the cobblestones – the sort of spot where James Bond would have pulled up in that Aston Martin.

Stan had told me that the man we were about to see was a wizard in his field and a consultant to all and sundry. To me, that always sounds like a firm of English solicitors. Hall & Sundry. No? Well, it was worth a try.

We were greeted by a short slim black-bearded fellow of about forty. He affected to resent our intrusion, though his gruffness was, I felt, mostly top-show. He demanded the plates, asking us to sit in the tiny living room while he went off to his laboratory. I’d hoped he might offer drinks, but that wasn’t to be.

Having expended our conversational harpoons, Stan and I chatted almost sensibly for half an hour, then Blackbeard returned, handing the plates to me. “Is this some kind of prank?” he growled.

“Prank?” I answered. “No. Certainly not. My client is very agitated. What’s the verdict?”

“They’re garbage. I never saw the like. Wouldn’t fool an infant. Your man must be either deluded or downright stupid.”

“I see,” I said, holding up the plates. “Would you like to add these to your collection when I’m through with them?”

He sniggered. “They’re not worth confiscating. Too bad even to exhibit as failures – and anyway, I have enough duds.”

So that was that. I ate humble pie and retreated to my fastness, amazed to note that after all that activity, I was back in the office by seven o’clock. Still time for more action before an evening in search of old films on TV. I weighed up my options. First things first, I thought, so I went to my spoonery, attacked a mixed grill with more gusto than it deserved – another hitch in my conversion to vegetarianism – then returned to base. I dialled the number Knight had given me for Barton Stokes, steeling myself to speak with the Prince of Darkness.

I got straight through to the man, told him who I was and what it was all about, emphasising that Mundy Knight was under my protection and that his engravings were worthless. In a burst of bravado, I mentioned my experiences with Jack Lanigan and Horsehead Mulrooney, concluding with the tentative shot that Stokes was in the major league here and that if he laid a finger on my client, he’d be sorry.

His reaction was, I confess, disappointing. He actually guffawed – the cheek of it. “You know what, Potts? You remind me of a little orange squeezer I have here.”

“How so?”

“You make a lot of noise and you’re low-powered.”

Had I been on top form, I’d have made some crack about his getting his quips from cornflake boxes. Maybe it was as well that he didn’t give me time to flounder. “So, I’m out of my depth am I?” he bellowed. “Well, just to set you straight, this Mundy Knight turd owes me money – no need for me to give you the details. I don’t know anything about his plates. If he thinks I’m after them, his imagination must be working overtime. Still, I’m interested to hear that they’re useless. And as to Lanigan and Mulrooney, you’re talking strictly small-time. Now look, you’re not really worth my attention, but you’re about to learn what it means to tangle with me. I think the politicians talk about a measured response. Goodbye.”

That brings me back to the start of this story. After talking to Barton Stokes, I sat irresolute for a long time, then decided that I’d ponder further before contacting Knight, so closed the office and set out for my car. I’d just turned the corner to the parking lot when two bulky men closed in on me, each taking an elbow. It was like being seized by a pair of animated wheel-clamps. “Just move along, buddy,” one of them grated. There wasn’t much choice – my feet were barely touching the ground. I was hustled into the back of a green Buick and assumed that my escort had in mind the proverbial outing, but to my surprise the car stayed put. For some odd reason, the thought uppermost in my mind was that if these chaps were emissaries from Stokes and had driven the thirty-odd miles from Hanbury, they must have been activated quickly.

One of my new pals retained his painful hold on my right elbow. The other produced a bottle of whisky. “Now,” he said, “we got no instructions about breakages. This is just a little lesson, compliments of Mr Stokes. You’re goin’ to drink, or we’ll forget our orders.” Maybe these characters had seen ‘North by Northwest’, because they handled me much as the goons did Gary Grant in that film, though I couldn’t remember whether Cary had an alarmingly large automatic under his chin, as I did.

Anyway, that was how I found myself prostrate and stoned on the sidewalk outside my office an hour later – and how I wound up trying to explain my predicament to a patrolling cop. He wasn’t too sympathetic, so I landed in the pokey.

At the time, I thought it was my relative loquacity, even – or perhaps especially – in drink that did the trick. However, I learned later that that I would have had the right to summon my lawyer, Alan Nichols, without any special pleading.

As far as I knew, Alan had little experience in these matters, but he must have carried some weight, though his approach struck me as unorthodox. He said something to the effect that I was a Limey sap, with no more sense than a watermelon, but that the idea of my being a drunk was absurd. For God’s sake, he’d known me for years and the idea of my drinking spirits was ludicrous. I was barely removed from tee-total. Well, he was right on one point. I was passably abstemious and rarely touched the hard stuff.

I didn’t know anything about the usual procedure, but after Alan had sparred with them for a few minutes, the police seemed to lose interest in me and I was out before midnight.

On the Thursday, I summoned my client, handed back his plates, told him that I failed to help him and that there would be no charge for my efforts. He didn’t believe that Stokes had no interest in his engravings. When Knight left me, he was very upset. I never heard anything more from him or of him.

So, I was out a day’s pay and had been well and truly put in my place. Barton Stokes was right about his measured response. He could have done much worse to me. To compound my woes, I had to pay Alan Nichols – and lawyers don’t do that kind of work for nothing.

I’d love to finish these tales on a triumphant note, but if you’ve persisted this far, you’re entitled to the truth. The affair narrated here was my last case, and the one that finally convinced me of what I’d suspected for some time. I wasn’t really cut out for PI work.

If you have enjoyed the Pondhopper tales, you might care to know that the first item of another aspect of my work has just appeared on a different forum. This is a story entitled ‘Banking On It’ and is the first of what I hope will be a series called ‘Sunset Stories’. If you like the sound of this, please click on the link below:

http://www.writingforums.com/crime-thriller-general-fiction/131220-sunset-stories-banking-others.html#post1541557

The Courtjester