I was sitting in my office cleaning my handgun when it accidentally fired killing a Mr Alfred Rukelhaus who was having his hair cut in “The Hair’s Progress” across the street—a business run by a guy called Stravinsky.
I immediately leapt from my chair, closed the venetian blinds, and crawled on my knees back to my desk. I was still on the floor when Elina entered my office.
‘That sounded like a shot?’ she enquired.
‘It was my new coffee percolator. Buying a “twenty cup” was a blunder. It just flew out the window … probably in Central Park by now’.
‘Are you a private eye?’
I slipped back into my chair and awkwardly shuffled the one piece of paper on my desk. When I glanced at the source of the voice, I saw a beautiful, golden-haired and voluptuous creature. Normally I stand to greet clients, but decided—for her modesty, and mine—to remain seated. I gestured to the lady to take a seat.
‘My name is Elina’.
‘Sounds Greek?’
‘I’m from the Bronx.’
She looked at me with a mixture of intensity and pride.
‘Are you an investigator, or not?’—Elina glanced at her watch—’I’ve no time to waste.’
After taking a deep breath, her two eyes met my two eyes. ‘You have a face that cries – NO, SHOUTS (I leapt from my chair at her booming voice) -melancholy.’ Then softly, ‘and just a little anxious, no?’
I pretended otherwise, but odd sounds emanated from my body, and my legs quaked. I made a mental note to modify my diet.
‘I’m … an explorer, a prober, a sleuth.’ I started to ramble.
‘What was your most recent case, and the outcome?’
‘A kidnapped halibut. It belonged to a dentist who performed a shoddy deep-root filling. The kidnapper sent a ransom note to its owner with a photograph of the fish holding the New York Times. The fish was returned unharmed. I’m sorry to say the dentist was later found dead—battered to death with a haddock’ .
‘How did you recover this fish—this hellibute?’
‘Halibut. Basic, professional detective work. I’m sworn to secrecy about details …’ I made a note to get analgesics; my gums were still markedly sensitive.
Elina believed her husband was dead, or worse, had joined a travelling circus as an elephant. I stayed quiet hoping Elina would volunteer information. She didn’t.
‘What’s the book?’ she asked, pointing to my desk.
‘Gustave Flaubert by Madame Bovary—I’m not usually a fan of female writers, but this is breathtaking, a masterpiece’.
I followed her gaze until our eyes met again. The smile went from her face, replaced by fatigue, sadness. Finally, I asked, ‘Did you kill your husband?’
‘I said—’
‘—I know what you said. That’s ridiculous. Why would I?’
‘Money, love, sex …?’ I said in a high squeak.
‘NO ... NO … I could never do that ...’
‘OK. I believe you.’
Elina kept silent. My instinct told me she was talking straight. She obviously occupied the high-end of the market, and a guy would require deep pockets to hold on to her. Still, I was smitten.
‘Tell me about your husband. How you met him … ’ As I listened I looked more closely at her face. Occasionally she smiled and blushed, as if she was guilty of something indecent.
End of Part One
Read Part Two
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