by John Schou
any possibility to smoke. He was completely uninterested in the classical music, so richly offered there since Mr. Smith thought people might appreciate it, as he did himself. In this matter, Mr. Cordone was with the majority; hardly anybody would enjoy music in the tense mood while waiting for an audience in a mostly criminal case, but this was a fact the host refused to understand.
The guest had also refused the usual cup of coffee. Juanita had offered him a beer, which was exceptional but could possibly be explained by her gratitude of the possibility to get away from Mr. Smith. I wondered where she had got it, since she did not return to the kitchen while we ‘enjoyed’ our breakfast. But of course, she must have gone directly to the cellar. This was the first client who received a beer in the music room and the first alcoholic brewage offered anybody so early in the day (except Mr. Smith’s Fernet Branca, which he claims is medicine and does not believe contains alcohol). That explains the smell from our guest’s mouth, which quite suited his visual appearance.
I have picked up many guests from the music-room, generally very elegant ones, until this day with the lowest dressing standard met in representatives of the law. Mr. Cordone opened a new dimension in this regard: I am sure he was our first guest with a hole in his trouser, warn-out and dirty jeans. His shirt was not much better. Now, in springtime, he was expected to wear a coat or jacket; instead, he had a vest. The upper two buttons were open, exposing an equally dirty sweat-shirt. Also the shoes were worn out. His personal appearance matched his clothes. He had definitely passed the age of forty though he could also be somewhat older; his brown hair, which was retracted considerably from his forehead, was not discoloured, but some of the bard hairs were – he had not shaved for some days. His face was full of rinks and his skin sun-tanned, which at this time of the year was impossible to gain in Denmark. He was a rather small person and just a little bid fat, as I have been told that men develop in middle age, while others, as Mr. Smith, even long before. This same Mr. Smith later told me, that he had been smelling of beer, not knowing that it was from his own cellar, and I did not tell him either.
He behaved well initially, as if the person’s appearance did not matter to him. It certainly did, as he had proven on several occasions, but probably he instantly considered this as an act of revenge from me (which it indeed was), and then he did not want to let me notice any reaction. In the meantime, he thought out something different, something more malicious.
After a brief presentation followed the question: “And what prompts you to ask for my service, Mr. Cordone?”
I had talked Danish to him and had not noticed anything particular about his language; he talked as a native Dane. Now, however, he answered Mr. Smith in rather fluent English, but with a distinct Italian accent, as suited his name. “I am a sailor, and I haven’t been paid for my last job.”
“Then why are you not presenting your case to the police?”
“It is very confidential; it includes secrets which are certainly not for the ears of any police officer.”
Normally, Mr. Smith would react with the mention that I was subject to the same discretion as he himself and that it would be impossible for him to solve any tasks without my intervention. Today, everything was different. “Eric, will you please leave us alone?”
I was not so good in concealing my surprise as he had been, and undoubtedly it pleased him. However, with a few seconds delay I raised and said, “I shall be if my office if you need me.”
“We shall try not to disturb you.”
I went straight to my office and turned on the surveillance microphone to the central office, for the first and only time without having gotten confirmation on this measure by Mr. Smith. He would, however, see a red lamp light up under his table, and with a button there he could disrupt the connection – which he then immediately did. I gathered that it could not be very important what the old sailor had to tell, but it left a disturbing feeling to be held in the dark.
About 11 o’clock, I heard that Juanita escorted our guest out. Would I go first or would he call me? I decided to occupy myself privately if he did not need me but at 12:30 sharp enter the morning-room for lunch. I entered the room from my office as I heard him open the door from his.
“I guess that we shall soon see the Swedish coast, provided the fog raises,” I started, bearing in mind that it was forbidden to discuss business matters during the lunchtime and just before Mr. Smith’s siesta at 1 p.m.
“I have always greeted the fog which concealed the power-plant at Barsebäck,” he replied. “Now that it is out of function, we can look over the Sea again. Do you know that worldwide, there is not a single deposit for nuclear waste?”
“Yes, I knew, but I had no idea that you knew. We never discussed it.” Somehow, this information had come to him recently. “The Americans are getting rid of part of their problem through implementation in armour-breaking munitions. The Iraqi people already received a load many times greater than the Japanese in Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined. And they are also presenting it to the Israelis for their regular war-fares.”
“Eric, you are an anti-Semite!” Last week, I had said the same about him. It is an eternal subject, as when the British are discussing their ever changing weather.
“Yes, if it is anti-Semitic to oppose the Israeli genocide, then I am just proud to be an anti-Zionist. However, if you analyze the words, you come to a different conclusion.”
The ice was broken and we continued our conversation in the old style, carefully avoiding Mr. Cordone and all matters relating to his case.
At 3 p.m. that day, after Mr. Smith’s siesta, the new challenge, whatever small it appeared, had softened my master’s stiff character and I was allowed to work a bit, but still without knowing more about the case.
“Eric, find the telephone number of ‘Frozen Line Ltd.’ And connect me to the managing director, a certain Mr. Jensen.” I obeyed.
“Frozen Line, Lone Rasmussen, how can I help you,” a female said in Danish.
I answered in English “Smith Consulting, Eric Gusto speaking. Mr. Smith wants to talk to Mr. Jensen.”
“Then please connect me to Mr. Smith,” she said.
“He is sitting right beside me, waiting for Mr. Jensen.”
“He is also sitting right beside me. Go ahead.”
I gave up. After all, I had made the call. I connected to my chief.
“Smith,” he growled, killing all lust for conversation in his counterpart.
She escaped with, “Hold the line, I’ll connect to Mr. Jensen.” I took over to save him from the telephone-version of Mozart’s ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik’.
“Jensen.”
“Hold the line, I connect to Mr. Smith.” Since we had not then prepared our telephone-version of Wagner’s ‘Walkyrie’, I did so right away.
“Mr. Jensen, I am representing the interests of Mr. Luciano Cordone, who recently sailed with ‘Frozen Gulf’ but has not been paid appropriately for his last travel.”
“Has he told you why he has not been paid?
“He has told enough to damage your company seriously if his demands are not met.”
“He already did damage us. It was his fault that ‘Frozen Gulf’ did not – eh – complete its mission”
“We talked about that, too. There should be a chance that this mission is completed now.”
“Please understand, that the confidence in Mr. Cordone is not so big,” Mr. Jensen argued.
“I may involve an assistance of my confidence. Think it over and call me within 24 hours on the telephone number ...”
“I have it here on the display. And if I don’t call within 24 hours?”
“I am sure that you will. It is not in the interest of any of us to involve authorities in this little matter, that is why Mr. Cordone preferred to consult me,” Mr. Smith said and ended the conversation without any formalities.
“Get hold of Sam,” he barked after hanging up the telephone.
I ob
eyed with the attempt. The result was unsatisfactory. “He is in the hospital and got operated today.”
“God gracious! Nothing serious, I hope?”
“His landlady only betrayed that it was a scheduled operation, nothing acute, but did not want to give further details.”
“Could he then not have waited till ... – never mind. Get hold of Fred.”
This time, I was more successful though, as it turned out, he was also not available the first few days.
“Who else have we got who may undertake a sea-travel of about two weeks, in case Mr. Jensen takes the bait?”
“How about Mr. Gusto?” I asked. “My doctor has recommended me a long sea-travel to restore my nerves.”
“Yes, that would indeed solve some problems. I shall, of course, have to tell you, what it is all about, and since it is on the edge with the law, you may then be entitled to withdrawing your generous offer.”
I thought that if I stayed much longer in this house, I might commit a serious crime which would not only be ‘on the edge with the law,’ but I kept that for myself and plainly said, “Go on.”
Before he could do so, the telephone rang. It was Mr. Jensen. “We need to act fast. Can you come to my office right away?”
“I am sorry. Being an invalid, I never leave my house here in Hellerup. You will have to come here. How soon can you he here?”
“Depends on the traffic, at least half an hour. What is the precise address?”
“My assistant will instruct you how to get here.” He gave me the phone and I explained to Mr. Jensen, who only wanted the address; his navigator would take care of the rest.
In the meantime, while we were waiting for him, Mr. Smith gave me an instruction of what it was all about.
The traffic must have been merciful; barely half an hour after our call, the doorbell rang and Juanita let Mr. Jensen into the music room. I looked at our surveillance monitor and saw a slim bespectacled person walking up and down like a lion in a cage, the usual reaction of a first visitor. He was perhaps thirty years old – I had imagined him older, both from his talk in the phone and his position as managing director of a shipping company (though I had never heard of it before). To his youthful appearance counted his short, light blond hair – being myself dark-haired and slowly getting older with it, I find it an outrageous naughtiness that people are often taken for younger and brighter in thinking because of the colour of their hair. I wanted to let him age a bit more, but Mr. Smith mentioned the need for faster action in order to be ready for a live transmission of Parsifal from some famous opera-house, so rather soon we found Mr. Jensen sitting in the holiest, innermost part of the house.
After a monotonous presentation, our guest murmured something about the beautiful surroundings with the house so close to the sea (we knew it, seeing it every day) and then asked how a person like Mr. Cordone could enter this room.
“He rang the doorbell and entered through the same doors as you did,” I explained. “As for who advised him to ask for our assistance, I have no idea. Many people have heard about Mr. Smith but most of them are unknown to him.”
The mentioned person considered if it was a positive description of fame or a negative quality, referring to lacking memory of one of these persons. He decided not to comment on my laurel.
Mr. Jensen did not waste our time. “Cordone blocked the departure of M/S Frozen Gulf to Dakar yesterday. He persuaded his five colleagues not to embark. Only the captain remained after that, and he can’t sail the ship alone.”
Mr. Smith filled out the unspoken details. “Mr. Cordone told me that this coaster, although sailing under Panama flag, is only permitted in Danish and European waters with a crew of at least eight and he did not recognize the ship dog ‘Tom’ as the last crew member.” We all
