I was sitting in my office cleaning my handgun when it accidentally fired narrowly missing a flea on the head of Mr Alfred Rukelhaus who was having his hair cut in “The Hair’s Progress” across the street—a business run by a man with large black eyes that squinted intensely called Stravinsky. I immediately leapt from my chair, closed the venetian blinds and crawled on my knees back to my desk. I was on the floor when someone entered my office.
"That sounded like a shot?"
"It was my new coffee percolator. Buying a 'twenty cup' was a blunder. It flew out the window. Probably in Shoreditch Park by now."
"Are you a private eye?"
I slipped back into my chair and shuffled the one piece of paper on my desk. When I glanced at the source of the voice, I saw a beautiful woman with fine black hair and piercing dark eyes. 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 Tooting."
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 checking I was breathing my two eyes met her two eyes. "You have a face that cries – NO, SHOUTS (I leapt from my chair) MELANCHOLY!" Then softly, "And just a little anxious, no?"
Peculiar sounds emanated from my body. 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 Hackney Post. 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 the details—" I made a note to obtain analgesics; my gums were still markedly sensitive.
"What’s the book?" she asked, pointing to my desk.
"Gustave Flaubert by Madame Bovary. I’m not usually a fan of female writers, however this is exceptional."
Elina had lost her husband and was fearful he was in danger. I stayed quiet hoping she would volunteer information.
Finally, I asked, "Did you murder your husband?"
She half-closed her beautiful eyes with a weary grace.
"I said—"
"—I know what you said. Why would I?"
"Money, pleasure, the excitement of amorous adventures—?"
"NO! You're insane." A perceptive and intelligent lady.
My instinct told me she was telling the truth. "OK. I believe you. Tell me about your husband. How you met him—" As I listened I looked at her face. I could sense uncertainty beneath her enticing self-confidence.
End of Part One (to be continued during bright daylight)
