Abraham Surd

by Muppy Heingardt



  Abraham Surd

  By Muppy Heingardt

  Copyright 2013 Muppy Heingardt

  When Abraham Surd read the letter that afternoon, he didn’t let it interrupt his lunch. He placed it on his desk and leaned back lazily in his large, leather chair–one of the type that comes almost a foot above the head, soft and comfortable with adjustable height and a nice recline–and finished a home-made sandwich noisily.

  An hour passed as he sat there, making a pointed effort of doing absolutely nothing. The letter was face down on the desk in front of him. Abraham stared at it for a long time, then picked it up and read it once more. Pausing briefly when he’d finished, he reached for his phone–the old polished, black rotary--and dialed the police station, extension 602.

  He let it chime about six times before hanging up. His fingers tapped upon his desk, the polished mahogany causing a soft echo throughout the room. A fan oscillated from atop the filing cabinet behind him, near an open window. Sunlight laced the carpet through the blinds. Everything was rhythmic and peaceful.

  Then the phone rang, desperately trying to infiltrate some chaos into the monotony, and Abraham casually picked it up. “Hello, Margaret.”

  “I was having lunch.”

  Margaret Garine’s was a voice that suggested she was always slightly annoyed. She spoke as though she wanted to end every sentence with “anyway”. Abraham had always been amused with her tone. It was a voice that insinuated she could be complaining about a million things wrong with the universe, but for the moment would refrain, so don’t push it.

  His eyes drifted to the letter once more as Margaret said, “It’s been a really rough day down here,” and he hurried to interrupt before the details of her day befell him.

  “My whole day has been pretty lazy. It was too much effort for me to do nothing–“ he paused, just in case she was going to laugh, but there was only silence, “–and I wanted to invite you over for an evening of nothing. And tea. I’ve got a story to tell.”

  “Don’t you always?” she replied in marked sarcasm. “Well, I could certainly use an evening of nothing. Another one of your absurd little mysteries, isn’t it?”

  Of course, she was referring to his detective work. He was a private eye, supposedly. People hired him, and it was his job to solve cases. It didn’t sound the least absurd to anyone else when he explained it.

  But Margaret knew better. That explanation left one important detail missing, and that was the way in which he solved his cases. Detective Abraham Surd had actually become rather well-known in his line of business due to a quirk of his methods. He was no stock-in-trade detective, to be sure. Most detectives didn’t solve crimes before they had happened.

  “Yes,” he answered, “and a pretty unusual mystery, even for me. So can I expect you? Because otherwise I’m ordering out tonight.”

  “I’ll be there, Abraham, I’ll be there. Anyway...”

  They said their goodbyes, and Abraham sat at his desk for another hour, contemplating the letter. The rest of the afternoon went to reading. He studied his meager bookshelf closely. There were mostly books on law, which he never bothered much with. There were very few novels. He’d finished all but one. It was a mystery novel, and he hated those. He almost always guessed the ending.

  Begrudgingly, he picked it up and read.

  It was about seven o’clock when Margaret arrived. Abraham heard the knocking from the bathroom, but he characteristically finished brushing his teeth before answering. When he opened the door, Margaret frowned at him.

  “I was in the bathroom,” he said, automatically.

  She stepped inside and took her shoes off, giving him a half-smile. “And your teeth are okay, then?”

  Abraham put on a guilty half-smile while taking her coat. “You’re too observant.”

  Abraham knew his bathroom could be seen through the window panes surrounding his door. However, it was true that Margaret was very observant, and probably his clean teeth wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. About six years his junior, she was the most decorated detective at the station, and it often showed. Margaret insisted she loved her work, but for her it was probably like loving cigarettes; it was slowly killing her personality. Even now, she arrived in her brown skirt and white blouse, probably coming straight from headquarters. Her clothes were wrinkled and her hair had seen more than a full day of work. Abraham had no doubts that she had been working since the early morning hours.

  “Come in, come in. Have a seat in the parlor. I’ve got the tea on.” And he led Margaret to a small room that connected his personal life to his office. There were two chairs, one on either side of a small, oak table, all resting on a large, round rug in the middle of an otherwise uncarpeted room.

  It occurred to Margaret every time she entered this room that nothing should have matched. The rug was like a giant, multi-colored dartboard. One of the chairs was brown leather, the fabric studded at the ends, and very tall and soft, with a roomy seat and, as she remembered, almost perfect armrests. The other was solid wood, but for the cushion on the seat. Just looking at it made her uncomfortable. And it was dark and varnished, just like the table, while the rest of the room was painted a kind of sickly green; very lackluster in the evening sun. A clock with a swinging pendulum hung above the fireplace. Margaret couldn’t decide whether the gentle ticking helped or merely added to the hum-drum. A room like this shouldn’t feel so...so cozy. Everything went together so well, too. It was like walking into a junkyard and seeing parts that had fallen in such a way to be a car. It wasn’t much to look at, but it worked.

  Abraham gestured at the large, leather chair. Margaret took the proffered seat while saying, “So are you going to tell me about one of your cases?”

  “In a way,” Abraham replied, as he crossed the room into the small kitchen at the back of his flat. “I want to put your observational skills to the test.”

  “What test?” she mused.

  “Well, it would be a test, more or less. Just a measurement.”

  He returned to the parlor with two steaming mugs, handing one to his guest. Then he took his place in the uncomfortable chair and sipped his tea, almost burning his tongue. He made a face and Margaret said, “Watch out. That may be hot.” Abraham ignored her and indicated a letter on the table.

  “Kindly read that, if you would.”

  Margaret raised an eyebrow, but slowly placed her mug on the table and took the letter. She unfolded it and read:

  To the great Abraham Surd:

  Tonight I wish to test your wit. I shall commit a theft,

  and it is your task to discover the nature of this heist.

  Within this letter, I have given you everything you need

  to know to prevent this crime. Should you fail, my true

  reward will be seeing you humiliated in your own forté.

  Good day.

  Margaret raised her eyes level with Abraham’s. Abraham shrugged.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked.

  Margaret reread the contents once more. Her lips moved silently. She folded the paper.

  “It would seem impossible to find one thief in a city of thousands based on this letter alone.”

  “But,” Abraham reminded her, “the letter states clearly that the culprit has given me everything I need to succeed in just that.”

  Margaret leaned, reaching for her mug. Abraham watched as she brought the drink to her lips with a seemingly studied etiquette. Margaret Garine had never seemed like she was meant to be a detective. She was very noble in her stature. Tough nosed and hard-of-wit, her regal manner put Abraham in mind of a commander on the battlefield, or perhaps a queen.

  Yet she liked Abraha
m’s games. She sat there, and that chair became a throne, she became the very image of authority, and he called all the shots. It didn’t make sense that she enjoyed his company, even if at times she seemed impatient with him. Still, Abraham was very careful not to wind her up too much, just in case.

  “And you believe, then, that this is not just a joke?”

  Abraham smiled, his mug halfway to his mouth. “No,” he said, pausing, “No, that’s very possible. I would, however, prefer to think it is not a joke. I would have no job, if that was the case.”

  Margaret gave a sigh. “Okay. If you are convinced, so am I. You want to know what I make of this letter?” Abraham nodded, urging her to continue. She leaned back, letting herself succumb to the comfort of the chair, and indeed Margaret could name few places more comfortable than this chair. It was one of the reasons she visited Abraham so often. At times the chair seemed as good a friend to her as her host. It even made thinking easier. She settled in and let her detective instincts take over. “Do you think it was anyone you know?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “There was no signature. It was typewritten. The writing itself isn’t familiar?”

  Abraham shrugged. “Not that I noticed.”

  “Not that you noticed...” Margaret tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I bet you didn’t bother to notice, did you, Abe?”

  “Not really.”

  “All right.” She closed her