Incompetence

by Rob Grant

  I found a relatively clean scrap of material and wiped myself down as best I could. I mustered all the dignity that was prepared to report for duty, and walked out into the street.

  I was getting all kinds of looks. Women were whisking toddlers over to the opposite side of the road, without worrying too hard about the traffic, or even whether the toddlers were theirs to whisk. I could probably have breezed an audition as a circus freak-show attraction. I badly needed a shower. I badly needed seven or eight showers, as a matter of fact, back to back, followed by a leisurely soak in a pit of lime. Though the truth was I would probably never be truly clean again. Not in this lifetime.

  I badly needed a change of clothes, too. But what I needed worst of all was a change of luck. Klingferm's garbage had yielded no great insights, and all I had for those hours of painstaking search was a lump on the back of my head, a couple of printer memory chips which may or may not have been wiped, and a lingering cacophony of smells and tastes I could quite frankly have lived my whole life without.

  I made a rudimentary stab at washing my hands in a beautifully ornate street drinking fountain. It had probably been there since the Renaissance, and now nobody would be able to drink from it ever again.

  I wanted to go back to my hotel room, lie on my bed and cry myself to sleep. But, of course, my hotel room didn't have a bed, and for all I knew there was an entire team of armed security guards in full riot gear waiting to arrest me on any number of counts, ranging from verbal sexual violence to stealing my own mail.

  I caught an aroma that caused a strange lolloping panicky reaction in my stomach. I looked around to find myself outside a cheese shop. I had to do something to get this taste out of my mouth. I knew that nothing was ever going to completely eradicate it, but I had to mask it at least, if only for a little while.

  I checked my trouser pockets, and found about EU3.70 in change. I ducked into the dingiest, dirtiest cafe I could find, and ordered the thickest, blackest espresso they could offer. Sure, people moved away from me at the bar. I didn't hold it against them. I would have moved away from me if I could.

  The coffee was vile, but it offered a pleasant respite for my taste buds, and freed my mind to face up to the investigation. And it did not look good. I was pretty close to drawing a blank here. I had to do some serious thinking.

  Now, Klingferm had been onto something. Something he knew was pretty big and pretty dangerous. So big and so dangerous, he'd gone to the extraordinary lengths of requesting a real-world visit from me. He must have known there was a possibility he might not be around for that meeting. He would have made provision for that. He would have left some kind of sign. A sign that most people, even a good professional, would miss. I felt pretty sure I'd missed it. Certainly, he wouldn't have relied on the printer chip.

  I went over his apartment in my mind's eye again. If it had been me leaving this hint, I wouldn't have hidden it somewhere obscure, somewhere nobody could find it. It would have to be fairly easy to come across, but innocuous, so most prying eyes would slip over it without noticing. A business card, maybe, of a contact who didn't know enough to be in danger, just enough to push you off in the right direction. A key to some kind of locker?

  And it hit me. It hit me like love's own arrow.

  Klingferm had left something like that. Maybe all of those things and more.

  I drained the coffee and slammed a big and noisy tip on the counter. I didn't even wait to use the washroom facilities, though, let's be honest, I was in dire need of them all.

  I headed back to Klingferm's place at quite a lick for me. I wasn't running, but I was definitely walking briskly. Of course, there was a risk I'd run into the armed garbage patrolman again, but I was feeling good enough to consider taking him on, armed or not. Klingferm was a genius and so was I for spotting it.

  Because what Klingferm had left me, was his dry-cleaning ticket.

  SEVEN

  I got back to Klingferm's apartment building without even stopping to buy some more shoes, but the garbage patrolman was nowhere to be seen. Shame. I had complicated plans for him involving a rusty metal crowbar and his backside

  I grabbed the dry-cleaning ticket, and checked the address. The shop was on the way back to the hotel. Good.

  I picked up Klingferm's bathrobe, and hurried out onto the street again.

  This time, I did stop off at a shoe shop. Again, they were out of leather models, and fresh out of carrot wear, too, so I picked up a lovely pair made of dehydrated courgettes and cardboard. Zucchini hide: comfort you can rely on.

  Maybe my luck was changing: the dry cleaners claimed to offer a one-hour express service. I handed over Klingferm's receipt, and got back a polythene-wrapped suit and a small brown envelope they'd put the contents of his pockets in. It was a shame Klingferm hadn't been my size. It was a pretty natty suit he'd left me, and I was in fairly desperate need of decent apparel.

  Riding my luck, I stripped down to my underwear, right there and then in front of the shop assistant, slipped on Klingferm's robe and handed over my shirt and my suit for the one-hour express deal. I could see the girl would have liked to refuse to even handle the filthy rags I'd landed her with, but I guess I didn't look like a guy anyone ought to be messing with right now.

  There was no chair, but I'm not an idiot, and I wasn't about to let my only remaining suit of clothes too far out of my sight, thank you, mister, so I rested my handsome derriere against the window sill and checked out the contents of the envelope.

  Klingferm had left me three things: a newspaper clipping about a highfalutin dinner party in Paris where all the guests had died of food poisoning; some kind of locker key; and a business card from the Plaything Club in Vienna, with a signature on the back that looked like Twinkle or Twonkle with a big, smoochy X underneath it and a lipstick kiss print, and beside that, in Klingferm's own, neat hand, the word 'Thursday'.

  Well, it wasn't much, yet. But at least it was something.

  Which did I go for first? The key was a mystery. It had a seven-digit number etched into it, which told me exactly nothing, and it appeared to be made by Ingersoll. Trying to hunt down the lock it opened didn't sound like a thrillingly quick and easy job, and I had to get moving on something fast. I slipped the key back into the envelope.

  Paris, then, or Vienna?

  I'd heard about the dinner party deaths. They'd happened a couple of weeks ago, and the whole business had sounded pretty peculiar to me. In fact, I'd been toying with the notion of looking into the incident myself just before I'd got Klingferm's summons.

  Vienna, the Plaything club, Twinkle? That could be anything. And Thursday? Today was Tuesday, so either I'd missed it, or I had two days to get there. I made my decision. Next stop Paris.

  My clothes came back in world record time -- less than forty minutes. Wonder if the speed of the service was in any way related to the powerful aroma I was slowly impregnating the entire shop with?

  I decided to walk back to the hotel in the towelling robe, carrying my suit and shirt over my arm. I didn't want to put them on until I'd had a shower or nine.

  On the way, I found a decent-looking computer shop, and dropped off the printer chips. They promised to print off anything they found on them within the hour. Yeah, right.

  The hotel's doors were still jammed, but I managed to squeeze through without causing myself too much damage. The geriatric receptionist actually ducked below his desk and tried to hide when he saw me, but his old knee joints couldn't quite cut the mustard and his quivering pate was clearly visible above the countertop.

  Avoiding the elevator, naturally, I walked up the stairs to my room.

  The room still had no bed, but that didn't bother me. All I wanted was to book a flight to Paris and take a long, relaxing, soapy bath. I tried to hang my clothes in the wardrobe, but the wardrobe didn't appear to be equipped with a pole for hanging clothes on, which, for my money, is a minimum requirement for a wardrobe to warrant its job description.


  That was fine. That was not a problem. I'd made a decision not to let these petty annoyances niggle me any more. I hung the clothes on the wardrobe door, removed my courgette shoes and my abominable socks and glided into the bathroom.

  There was no bath in the bathroom.

  Not only was there no bath in the bathroom, there were no bathroom facilities of any kind.

  I was pretty sure there had been a bath in the bathroom when I'd originally arrived. I knew for certain there'd been a working toilet in there. And a sink. Now there were just a series of pipes jutting up through the floor and out of the tile work.

  I punched a second hole in the wall and dialled House Services.

  A woman picked up the phone and said: 'Restaurant. How may I help you?'

  'There is no bath in my bathroom.'

  'Well, I'm sorry, sir, but this is the restaurant.'

  'I know. Every number in this hotel seems to be the restaurant.'

  'I'll put you through to House Services.'

  'No...'

  But she'd gone. I waited for the ringing and the click of the receiver being lifted. I waited once again for her to say: 'Restaurant. How may I help you?'

  'Yeah, see, lady, what you've done there, you've put yourself back through to yourself.'

  'Oh. Really?'

  'Don't worry, it's an easy mistake to make. It must be. You do it all the fucking time.'

  There was a long silence. 'It's you again, isn't it?'

  'Well, how could it not be? How could it not be me? Yours is the only phone I can get through to from this room.'

  'I'm warning you not to call me again.'

  'I don't want to call you again. I never wanted to call you in the first place. I can't help but fucking call you every fucking time I pick up the fucking phone.'

  The line went dead.

  Well, fine. Let her send up Security again. Let them arrest me. Even the worst jail in Italy would surely have a shower, or at the very least a crapper I could wash my face in.

  I went over to the minibar. I needed something to calm my ragged nerves.

  Predictably, there was nothing of a nerve-calming nature in there. I didn't think a Toblerone or a tube of overpriced nuts would do the job.

  There was a firm, officious knock at the door. I began to regret losing my rag with the restaurant manager. I couldn't afford to waste time getting myself all arrested, and that swine of a garbage patrolman had stolen my bribe wad.

  I opened the door. A tall, well suited man with grey hair and a trim moustache was looking at me. 'Mr Vascular?'

  He wasn't going to get me that easily. 'Who wants to know?'

  'My name is Farelli, Mr Vascular. I'm the hotel manager. I understand there have been certain complaints.'

  'Complaints? Yes, there've been certain complaints. I've got certain complaints aplenty. Take a look.'

  I opened the door, and swept my arm back for him to enter. He strode in with regal leisure, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked around the room slowly, nodding his head as it panned, like a general inspecting a regimental parade. 'I see,' he said, finally, and turned to face me. 'Mr Vascular,' he said, 'there is no bed in this room.'

  'Exactly.'

  He nodded again. 'What have you done with it?'

  'I sneaked it out in my jacket pocket.'

  'This is a serious matter, Mr Vascular. I'll thank you to treat it as such.'

  'Come here.' I walked to the bathroom door. 'Take a look in here.'

  He ambled into the bathroom, still keeping up his regal gait, still nodding genteelly.

  I waited a while.

  I waited a while longer.

  He ambled out again. 'Mr Vascular,' he said.

  'I know.'

  'There is no bath in the bathroom.'

  'Mr Farelli, I know.'

  'Nor is there a lavatory.'

  'I know.'

  'Nor a sink.'

  'I know.'

  'Are you suggesting all these things were missing when you checked in?'

  'No, no. Just the bed. The bathroom left town while I was out.'

  'You should have reported this, Mr Vascular.'

  'I did. I reported it to the restaurant manager.'

  'You should have reported this to House Services.'

  'I tried. Believe me.'

  'If you'll excuse me one moment.' He ambled to the phone, pulled out an enormous monogrammed silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket, made a big brouhaha about wiping down the receiver like it had just been used by a plague-carrying rat and dialled.

  I watched and I waited.

  'House Services? This is Mr Farelli. I'd like someone up in 407 immediately.'

  He smiled at me thinly. I smiled back at him, only thinner.

  His brow furrowed. 'Well, I dialled House Services ... Very well, then, could you kindly transfer me to House Services? Thank you.'

  I waited and I watched.

  'House Services? No, no, this is Farelli again. You've put me back through to yourself... Well, I'm trying to get through to House Services... Yes, could you do that for me? Thank you.'

  Farelli turned away from me and found something interesting to look at on the picture rail while he waited to be reconnected. 'Hello? No, no. No. I'm trying not to phone the restaurant... No. No, that's all right. I'll dial again myself.'

  He put the phone down, picked it up again and dialled. He still had his back to me. 'Hello? No, it can't be you again... No, I dialled Reception this time... No, I definitely dialled zero... No, thank you.'

  He put the phone down once more, then he picked it up and dialled again. He didn't give up easy, old Mr Farelli. He had a stronger appetite for frustration than most. He waited. He listened. He didn't even bother talking this time, he just slowly replaced the receiver, put his handkerchief back in his pocket and turned.

  'I think, perhaps, we should find you another room, Mr Vascular.'

  'That would be nice.'

  'This one appears to have a strange smell in it.'

  'Indeed it does.'

  'I'll organise that for you, right away.'

  I thanked him, he nodded a polite bow, and ambled out of the room.

  I was relocated to room 409, which didn't have a bed, either, but it did have a deep bath, and for that I was grateful. And so, for that matter, was the rest of Rome.

  I stopped off at the computer store to pick up what they'd recovered from Klingferm's printer chips.

  There was just one sheet, which didn't bode well.

  That meant someone had been smart enough to wipe the chips and leave me a message.

  It was a page downloaded from some website. A page about an American folk hero called Johnny Appleseed. Apparently old Johnny had travelled across America, barefoot, in shabby clothes, wearing a tin pot as a hat, planting apple seeds he'd collected from cider presses in Pennsylvania all the way from Ohio to Illinois, then spent the rest of his life tending the vast nurseries of apple seedlings his labours had produced.

  I didn't much like the sound of this. Either it was Klingferm leaving me another, unnecessarily obscure clue, which seemed elaborate and unlikely. Or it was Klingferm's killer himself, leaving me a very clever taunt.

  A clever, cold-blooded perpetrator of multiple homicides had taken time out to fuck with my head.

  Now I was beginning to worry.

  EIGHT

  There was no queue at the Air Europa ticket desk; a pleasant surprise. The clerk was a charming-looking kid with a gold tooth in his smile. He asked if he could help me.

  'Can I book a seat on the next flight to Paris?'

  He looked down at his computer screen and tapped away. He tapped away for quite a while. Finally, he looked up and glinted another smile. 'No. I'm afraid not, sir.'

  'It's full?'

  'I don't know.'

  'You don't know if it's full?'

  'No.'

  'Well, can you check for me?'

  He sighed, looked back down at his screen and tapped away again.
He shook his head. 'No.'

  'No, it's not full?'

  'No, I can't check for you whether it's full or not.'

  'Is the computer down?'

  'I don't think so.'

  'Then why can't you check?'

  His eyes flitted from side to side, then back in my direction. 'I don't know how to do that, sir.'

  'You don't know how to do that?'

  He shook his head sadly. 'I haven't got a clue.'

  'Didn't they train you how to do that?'

  'They tried, sir, but I didn't listen too good.'

  'You didn't listen?'

  'It was pretty boring. And I have attention-deficit issues.'

  Attention-deficit issues. Super. 'Well, can you book me a seat, anyway?'

  'No. I don't know how to do that, either.' He looked forlorn. I got the feeling he really wanted to help me.

  'Look, try typing in the flight number.'

  He brightened. 'OK. Yeah. That might work.' He tapped away at the keypad enthusiastically. He tapped away for an awfully long time. Then he stared at the screen. 'No. This is getting us nowhere.'

  I gave him a genuine smile. 'You don't know the flight number, do you?'

  'Not really, no.'

  I tried not to sigh. Exasperation wasn't going to help here. 'Try EA 599.'

  He tried EA 599. His eyes widened in childlike glee. 'Ye-es! Will you look at that? It's, like, a picture of the inside of a plane, with all the little seats and everything. That's amazing. How do they do that?'

  'So, there are seats available?'

  'I have no idea.'

  'Do any of the seats have little Xs on them?'

  'No.'

  'Any mark at all?'

  'Some of them have little red circles. Is that any use?'

  'I'm guessing the ones with little red circles are booked.'

  'That would make sense, yes.'

  'So, are there any seats that don't have little red circles?'

  'Yes. There's a whole bunch of them.'

  'OK. Can I book one of those, then?'

  'Ha! I don't see why not. I'm on a streak, here.'

  'That's terrific, son.' I reached for my wallet. 'How much will that be?'

  'That'll be twenty-five euros.'

  'Twenty-five euros? That's all?'