by John Schou
he liked the taste. And that is just the beginning of his breakfast; afterwards follows a number of rolls with honey, jam, ham and cheese in pre-defined range of order. I was looking with a slight disgust at this feeding orgy while my own dietary meal slowly disappeared.
“It is not your birthday today, Eric,” he said. He paid me enough to allow himself to use my first name while he remained ‘Mr. Smith’ to me.
“Even if it was, I could not eat so much.”
“I obviously need a larger replenishment for my body, to keep it in its old shape. When you grow big, you will also be served correspondingly. I only keep wondering, why you want to be so small, as judged from your meals.”
“Perhaps that is why I fail to grow big,” I suggested.
He ignored my comments. “And then there are all the thoughts, I make. Brain activity demands a lot of energy.”
“Certainly, that explains why I do not need so much.” I changed the subject: “How was the opera yesterday evening?”
Mr. Smith would not dream of leaving the house to go to the Opera House. It would also be technically difficult. Instead, he was viewing them alone on TV from DVD discs, of which he already had a rich amount. His possession of music-records was enormous but fortunately, the house was big enough to give space for it all. The ‘music room’ had a large collection of discs, second in size only to the Danish State Radio, but he preferred to order Juanita to search out some discs, which he would then listen to in the sitting room in his favourite chair. In the cellar, two rooms were full of records and tapes, none of which had been used in the three years I had been on Mr. Smith’s payroll. Yesterday came a new disc with Wagner’s ‘Lohengrin,’ which he wanted to see the same evening.
“It was simply terrible. Can you imagine that Elsa was the bad person who had abducted her brother, Count Telramund the hero who tried to uncover the plot while Lohengrin was mixing up in matters not of his concern?”
“Finally something different,” I remarked, not knowing how it should really be.
“And then after almost three hours, Elsa – who should be a young girl but was sung by an ‘overdone’ soprano – suddenly failed in the high notes. Strange that they let it pass on the disc, instead of recording that scene anew.”
“Probably they assumed that nobody would sit up for three hours to find out only then,” I suggested.
“I guess you are right,” Mr. Smith said thoughtfully. “I should have stopped after 15 minutes and taken one of the other editions I have. Will you please file it under ‘Disgraced Editions’ when we finish the morning programme?”
“Of course. I only don’t understand why you keep a disc you’ll never see again.”
“Just in case. I have been mistaken before. If we throw it out, I shall definitely read something in the coming days, which will make me interested in some detail again. It is like going away in sunny weather, bringing an umbrella along; it is the only way to make sure that it will not rain.”
“The meteorological weather-report has become more precise in later years,” I tried to argue against the necessity of this security measure.”
“Bah. The meteorologists are best when they tell you how the weather was, should you not have noticed. But your blind adherence will of course make you trust a scientific meteorological report than some stupid rain drops.”
I could have argued that he had little experience with outdoor weather since he stayed in the house most of the time. I did not. The main point was keeping up a social conversation without mentioning any business points. Also politics were a forbidden topic. Since Mr. Smith’s and my interests were absolutely additive, with little in common, and since we could not always talk about the weather, it was kind of a problem to keep this conversation going. Nevertheless, I learned much about all kind of arts and gastronomy during breakfast, and I tried to give some comments every now and then. Mr. Smith knew about my ignorance in this area and I knew that he knew it, but with this mutual knowledge, some amount of personal respect and a luxurious salary for the rest, we managed our way. And I did not tell him about the intruders, who should return this morning. Not before we were in the sitting room, which also was Mr. Smith’s office.
As soon as he had taken place in his favourite chair, helped by gallows, which afterwards disappeared behind panels in the wall, I was expected to giving him a brief summary of the mail. Then I said, “At eleven o’clock, we shall get a fine visit of a rich client, who arrived in a Cadillac with driver.”
“Whoever can afford a Cadillac can also afford the driver. Tell her to come back in the afternoon. I am not in the mood for female company presently.”
“I can’t – I mean, I promised her this term. She sounded pretty desperate. Juanita told me they had tried to wake the dead shortly after 8.”
“They also succeeded to disturb me. That is probably the reason why I am tired now. Three p.m. or not at all!”
“I am kind of worried for my salary. The balance for this year doesn’t look so promising. We could really use a rich client and I should gladly hunt her favourite pet animal, if that is the reason for her despair. Why don’t you let me take care of this case and you are just nodding and adding some positive words every now and then?”
“OK, that is an argument, but you must really manage this case all alone,” he said. I knew he could not keep his word, but first of all, we needed a new, wealthy client. In this moment, the doorbell rang. We did not expect anyone else. I had told Juanita to show the lady into the music room, our waiting room for impatient guests, with calming music playing; we should then be ready at the agreed time. She could offer her a coffee in the meantime.
At 11:00, Juanita knocked on the door and, having not received any negative reply, entered, closely followed by the guest who had used all her remaining patience, how little that may have been. We had finished our mail briefing long ago and were – or at least I was – ready for a new challenge.
Mrs. Wilson approached the guest chair, which I had turned so that we were grouped in a triangle. Normally, Mr. Smith preferred to be confronted with a new client en face, but the agreement from before called for a different arrangement. She recognized me from before, but it was obviously not a pleasant meeting, disregarding the fact that the sweating jogger from the morning had turned into a well-dressed businessman. After we had all introduced ourselves, she bluntly asked: “Must this young man necessarily be present? It is a matter of utmost discretion.”
“Mr. Gusto is a necessary part of all my investigations. As you see, I am physically indisposed, and when I need his physical assistance, he must know also what it is all about,” my master answered.
Having worked for Mr. Smith for some years, I was actually happy for the insult, being degraded to the brain’s physical supplement. It meant that he might possibly take the case himself, whatever it was about. His physical indisposition was a mild expression. Mr. Smith is not only excessively fat, he is also dependent on a wheelchair after a neurological disease, which stole him the control of his legs. The house has been rearranged for his particular demands: an escalator leads to the upper floors and the cellar and there are gallows in plenty strategic places, such as his bed, some chairs and his absolutely private toilets. If he had half the weight, it would be easier, but when reminded of this fact, he usually ‘comforted’ the one who had made this remark that it would anyhow all be gone in a brief time, whereupon the subject was changed, to the relief of everybody.
His fatness was expressed in his face, which appeared strangely square, more so through a full beard. His short hairs were well-preserved, short cut and stood up vertically, still giving the impression of a blond colour although heavily mixed up with grey hairs. His cheeks seemed square with parallel vertical lines along the nose, which was the only sharp object in his face. Needless to comment the rest of his body, from where the majority of his some 400 pounds originated, it would therefore be too big a project to start now. By the way, this weight is merely an estimate. I do not think
there were any such devices in the house that could measure it. The main characteristic for a rapid evaluation, the wheelchair, was taken away, a luxury always performed when guests or clients were coming. That demanded that Juanita or I had to be nearby, and he was, in fact, never alone. Juanita would soon go shopping and afterwards she had some free hours. She was present for many hours, but she was not working much during this time. But back to Mrs. Wilson, who was now recovering from the shock of Mr. Smith’s visual appearance. His attitude to strangers, regardless their status of clients, was not much more appalling. For now, he just silently reminded me to go on, bearing in mind that it was me who should find the bird that had flown away or whatever was now disturbing her.
“Please describe the reason for your presence and be assured of my discretion, which will be guaranteed in writing if there is a case for us coming up,” I started.
“Very well, I hope there is. It is about my son, Jack Wilson, who was one of the unhappy passengers of the four hijacked planes on September 11, 2001, now five years ago. He has been declared dead as a result of the planes’ crash in Pennsylvania and we have been paid a sum as sole relatives – he had just finished college and was 18 years old, far from being married. We have more or less accepted the situation and recently, we have left the United States while my husband has taken over the direction of an international company with seat in Copenhagen.
Three days ago, a man who called himself Jack Stewart called from Australia. In the telephone, I immediately got the feeling that this was my son speaking from the grave, and he did mention some experiences from college, which my son had told us about. And then he asked me to send some money.”
“How did he justify that you should send him money?” I asked.
“He didn’t. He just told me that he needed them. The next day he called back again and gave further details, which only a family member should know.”
“Did he tell you plainly at anytime that he was your son?” Mr. Smith interrupted. A good sign, I was afraid he was kind of sleeping with open eyes, but this proved interest in the matter.
“No, he really avoided that. Yesterday he called for the third time and gave me instructions, where to direct the money transfer – not a big sum, by the way, just 5,000 $ to a bank in Australia.”
‘The bill shall also not be a big sum,’ I thought, ‘just at least 10,000 $ for whatever we make.’
“Did he tell you, why he needed this money,” Mr. Smith said, his second intrusion in a short time.
“He said he wanted to come to Copenhagen and tell me something personally that he could not tell by phone. He also recommended that I contact Mr. Smith – he even gave me your address. You seem to have a broad reputation. Do you advertise abroad?”
“I do not advertise at all. Success is my best recommendation,” Mr. Smith said.
“At what time of the day did he call?” I also wanted to ask something.
“Always around 10 in the morning. Today there was no call.”
“This is around 9 p.m. in Australia. Did he tell you where he lived or give you a phone number?”
“No, and there was no number in the display of our phone.”
There was a small intermission, to be broken by Mr. Smith: I understand that you have the feeling that you were talking with your son while you know, this should be impossible. What exactly do you want from me?”
“I want you to go to Australia to find out, who this person is!”
I could not help smiling. It was several months ago when I was last time forced to drive Mr. Smith to the central police station in Copenhagen, perhaps 6 km away. It is always an
