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| The Case of the Missing Husband (Ch1. Ch2 in extended) | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||||||||
| 12 April 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||
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Somebody mentioned film noir, and it struck me that film noir was always stuck in the '40s. Though not necessarily the 1940s... Times were hard. I wasn’t crying into my beer over it, mainly because I had spent all my credit on bourbon. Times were hard for everyone. Even the fatcats in the cities could only afford three holidays a year. But the lower down the pile you got, the harder it hit. And there weren’t too many mugs lower than me. I had given Doris the day off. I might as well, I figured. I hadn’t been able to pay her this month, and I had a total of zero jobs. Zip. Nada. All I could do was sit at my desk, stare at the empty bottle and pray that the phone would ring. I’m not a religious man. I’ve seen too much of the devil in people to believe in God. But there comes a point when even the most ardent atheist prays, and I had passed that point days ago. I heard the outer office door open. Doris was a dope. She loved me, that much was obvious, but why was a mystery. I was a player. I’d never be a one woman man. Once, maybe, but I had had a stiletto heel driven through my heart too many times. They weren’t all the same, dames, but in the end it all boiled down to them wanting something from me that I didn’t have or wouldn’t give up. No, we were both better off out of it, but Doris was a sap. I had told her I couldn’t pay her this month and still she paid for the office broadband and she came in when I told her to scram. “What do you want?” I called out. “I thought I told you to scram today.” I saw the silhouette against the patterned glass of the connecting door. OK, it was plastic, but it looked like glass, and in my business you can’t be too fancy. The silhouette wasn't Doris'. Not unless she had had major bodywork done. The door opened and in flowed a complete stranger. She moved with a grace that seemed to suggest that all her moving parts were lubricated and warmed up. Every movement was like a catwalk model, as though the eyes of the world were on her. I bet wherever she went the eyes of everyone were on her. Her clothes were the sort of quality that even catwalk models would envy. Her outfit was tailored to fit her exactly, no prêt a porter for her. She curved in and out in all the same places that Doris did, but somehow her curves seemed to have the sort of warning signs you see on cliff-top roads. Her makeup, if she wore any, was understated. Makeup that looks less the more you put on was expensive. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the sort of guy whose eyes bounce out on stalks every time a woman walks by. I’m just a PI. It’s in my nature to observe. I observed the empty bourbon bottle on my desk, and casually slid it into the recycle bin. “You want me to scram?” Her voice matched her looks. Sophisticated, educated, with a tone that made you want to throw her onto a bed. She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and a smile teased her lips. Forget the bed, I wanted to throw her onto the desk. “Sorry. I thought you were someone else. Please, take a seat.” She smoothed her skirt as she sat opposite me, legs demurely crossed, a Prada bag on her lap. It looked like real leather, the sort you used to be able to get before the manufacture or import of leather goods was banned. I wondered if it was a family heirloom. “How can I help you?” I asked, pretending to be professional. “Are you Mister Littlejohn?” I bit back the immediate response. The sign on the door didn’t have ‘and partners’. It just said ‘Peter Littlejohn. Private Investigator’. Who else would I be, sitting at the only desk in the office. A burglar? I’d be out of luck if I was. I’d have to tidy the place up before I ransacked it, and then the best thing I could find would be the empty bottle. “Peter Littlejohn, at your service, Miss…” “Debray. Mrs.” No first name. And married. That certainly put me in my place. “I want you to find my husband.” I nodded. Divorce cases were my bread and butter, and if I didn’t take on some work soon, bread and butter would be a distant memory. “Do you know the name of the other woman?” She stared at me with a look so cold I felt like the captain of the Titanic. “There is no other woman, Mister Littlejohn. He has disappeared. No warning, no clues. Just disappeared.” She reached into her cleavage and produced a lace handkerchief. Class. No paper tissues for this gal. She dabbed at an eye, then tucked it back into her top, and I couldn’t help wondering how long it would stay moist down there. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked, dipping into her bag without waiting for an answer. Why wait? No red-blooded man would deny her a request like that. She lit a cigarette. I could tell immediately that it was real tobacco, not the bland synthetic the government allowed you nowadays. I vaguely recalled something about secondary smoke. Could you catch cancer in a couple of minutes? I wondered how much it cost to buy contraband like that. “I should report you for that,” I told her, not serious. She blew grey smoke into the office. “Do. The commissioner introduced me to the man that sells it.” I wondered if the commissioner’s man sold leather bags too. “Mrs Debray, I have to tell you. In my experience, there’s always another woman, and the wife is the last to know. I’m just warning you now, at the outset, so you can prepare yourself.” “Mr Littlejohn, I have to tell you. I love my husband, make no mistake about that, and I want him back. But there have been other women before. I’ve known about them.” She shrugged. “They’re cheaper than betting on the horses, and it keeps him happy, though God knows why. Men need a hobby. He hasn’t got a woman at the moment, and if he did, he wouldn’t run off with her. Our pre-nup would make him a pauper, and he just would not be prepared to live as a pauper, Mr Littlejohn, not for all the sex he could handle.” She took an elegant draw on her cigarette and looked around for an ashtray. I pushed a paper cup towards her. I can be classy too. I never drink bourbon straight from the bottle if there’s a paper cup available. Her marriage seemed… unusual. I didn’t buy the love crap for a moment. The eye seemed a little too dry to warrant a handkerchief. She had played that move just to get me interested. But who was I to judge on what made a good marriage? I certainly wouldn’t make any moral judgements about her money. “How long has he been missing?” I asked. “Three days. I know that doesn’t seem long, but you don’t know my husband, Mr Littlejohn. Believe me, he has disappeared. He hasn’t used his credit cards or phone, he hasn’t logged into his e-messenger.” I raised my eyebrows. “You have access to those logs?” “Oh please. How do you think I know about his hobby?” “I’ll need his personal details.” She reached into the bag again and withdrew a RAM stick. “It’s all here.” “I charge… eight hundred a day plus expenses.” I had never got eight hundred a day, even with expenses, but she could afford it. She nodded and took out a pre-pay chip. “There’s two thousand on here as an advance. I’ll expect receipts and frequent progress reports, Mr Littlejohn.” “One more question. Why me? Why not the police?” “No police! At least, not yet. I really do not want it known amongst our friends. As far as they are concerned, he’s sick at the moment. I want it to stay that way, for now. As for you, you were recommended to me by a mutual acquaintance. Mr Lovejoy.” The name rang a bell. Then I remembered. Lovejoy. A dentist Westside. If ever there was an inappropriate name. He was a joyless weasel of a man who suspected his wife was cheating on him. One look at him and I had been certain she was. How did that work, I wondered. Did Mrs Debray say, “I want a crown fixed, and by the way, do you know a good PI?” She stubbed the cigarette out half smoked into the paper cup and rose. The interview was over. Ever the gentleman, I rose too, but she was already at the door. No handshake, then. “My details are on the chip, Mr Littlejohn. I’ll expect regular calls from you.” Then all that was left of her was the fragrance of tobacco smoke and a hint of expensive perfume.
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