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Fish by SF Johnston
(Installment TWO of THREE - continued from Spring 2007 Issue)
He handed it to me. The paper had been ripped unevenly from its pad, and had two words scrawled on it. LIBRARY. FISH.
"This note would appear to indicate that the CD is somewhere in this room," said Mr. Walsh. "But it also appears that Mr. Pliny believed that the intruder would gain entry. Gain entry and find the note. So he wrote it in a code. A code that the intruder wouldn't understand. But we can't understand the note. And we have to understand the note."
Okay, I knew he was stressed about the time and all, but I wondered if he knew he was talking like a 1930's movie actor. Then something occurred to me.
"Ten thousand dollars seems like a lot of m末"
"It is. But I need this CD now," said Mr. Walsh. "We are confident that this intruder has associates, and that they will not give up. In that regard, I have retained the services of one Mr. Raoul. He'll be here in twenty minutes, and末"
"Mr. Raoul?" said Carolyn.
"Yes, dear," said Mr. Walsh impatiently. "Mr. Raoul."
"Does he still have that awful beard?"
"Does he still末?" Mr. Walsh bunched his fists up at his sides and tensed his shoulders. Then he screwed up his face and for one highly entertaining moment he looked just like Yosemite Sam. I thought that steam might actually start coming out of his ears, but he managed to regain control and his face relaxed into a mere scowl. "Carolyn. Every second wasted末"
"I don't know who Mr. Raoul is," I said to Mr. Sutherland. "But anything you can tell me that might be important to the case末"
"Mr. Raoul is under the impression that his goatee makes him look distinguished," he said. "It doesn't. And while Mr. Raoul is very, very good at what he does, he can also be very, very dangerous if you get on his bad side. And he is not known for his sense of humor, so we don't mention facial hair to Mr. Raoul, do we Carolyn?"
"No, Daddy."
Mr. Walsh hadn't taken his eyes off me. "Stock, I need to have this CD for Mr. Raoul when he arrives."
Wow. Now I really wanted to know what was on the CD.
"Is there anything else?" I asked.
"Just what Mr. Pliny was working on," said Mr. Walsh. He pointed to the table, and I took in the bewildering mess of paperwork.
"Fish?" I said. He looked at me doubtfully.
"Fish. Twenty minutes. Carolyn will help you. I have to prepare some other material for Mr. Raoul." He started walking to the door. "Carolyn," he said without looking back, "I hope you're right about this guy. Twenty minutes." And then he was gone.
I turned to the table and surveyed the scene. I was looking at hundreds of legal documents, graphs and spreadsheets with rows of incomprehensible numbers. It was more material than I could go through in twenty days, much less twenty minutes.
A few brightly colored flyers stood out from the mess, with fancy logos and company acronyms. Many had addresses in places like the Cayman Islands, and were filled with photographs of boardrooms with deep yellows and rich browns. They exuded wealth and trust, but also had the occasional beach and palm tree thrown in.
Harvey, Erskine and Grant. The flyer contained an outline of their corporate legal services and showed a well-appointed boardroom. General Holdings Overseas Trust Incorporated. That one announced their annual report, and had a picture of a large, stately European building. Island Banking Associates. Lots of palm trees.
Then there was Appleby Cayman Estates. It was the flashiest, with a raised gloss font and a gigantic orange company acronym: ACE. A huge house with an aquamarine swimming pool and a beautiful woman in a tiny bathing suit. And when I say bathing suit I mean two pieces of red string.
But not a fish in sight, and the clock was ticking. I looked around the room again with a different eye.
We investigators have a different ways of looking at a room, you know. For instance, when I first entered the room, I was aware of the wealth and obvious power of the owner, as well as the general artistic leanings of the household. Now that I knew the details of the situation, I looked at the room completely differently. I was looking for clues. With professional detachment. And a razor's-edge intellect.
"A lot of these pictures have naked ladies in them," I said.
"Paintings," said Carolyn. "Not pictures. And they're called nudes."
I swallowed hard and forced my thoughts in a direction quite different from their natural inclination.
"But I don't see any fish," I said. I tried to imagine where I would conceal a CD if I needed to do it posthaste, as they say. Behind a painting, I deduced. Or in a book.
It takes a sharp, sharp mind to do what I do.
Since there were one gazillion books and only a few dozen paintings, I decided to start with the paintings.
"I've decided to start with the paintings," I announced. "Are they protected by an alarm system?"
"Disabled," said Carolyn, "We already took a quick look. Daddy thought you might want to start there."
Mr. Walsh had anticipated my methodology with admirable forethought. I felt my overpowering presence in the room deflate slightly, but pressed on with determination. At least I was in charge from here on in.
"And he said that I should help you take them down if you wanted a closer look," she continued.
"He left instructions?"
"Yes. And these." She pulled two packages of surgeon's gloves from the front pocket of her slacks and handed me a set. I slipped them onto my hands. Actually, I didn't so much slip them on as struggle to maintain my dignity as I pulled and snapped and wriggled my appendages into the uncooperative latex. Carolyn had already put hers on, and was watching me intently, so of course I thought of another awkward latex product. My face might have gone red again, but it might just have been the time pressure.
"Wow," she said. "You don't have much time. I guess, for you, this is like a quickie." She held up one of her gloved hands. "Oh, and we can touch anything we like with these on."
Okay, this caused my loins to actually stir. She was standing very close now, and I was thinking how excellent it all was until I realized to my horror that she smelled like Pears soap. Which would have been nice except that my great-aunt Eleanor smelled of Pears soap, so I started to freak out at the loins thing.
I gave my head a shake and tried to focus. I brought Carolyn back to the doorway and we each started down one side of the room looking for fish. I refrained from pausing in front of the greater works, and did not at any time place a hand thoughtfully on my chin. We met up at the other end of the room by the bar. She had found a painting of Neptune holding a trident, awash in foam and looking very godlike, but without any fish. I had seen a lot of very small breasts on very large women, and one woman made completely out of triangles with her mouth where her belly button should have been. But no fish either.
You'd think with all the talk in art circles about symbolism and the unconscious that we would have at least found an eel or something.
I leaned on the bar and tried to look casual. But I must admit I was getting nervous about the time. It would have been nice if one of the paintings had leapt out at me with obvious import, because searching through all those books was going to be a nightmare.
"What about those?" said Carolyn, pointing above the bar.
The collection of European scenes. I had completely forgotten about those.
"I thought of those," I said, scanning the paintings. "But they're mostly street scenes. I don't think末"
And then I saw it. It was nestled between a charcoal drawing of a Tapas bar in a very Gaudi-influenced Barcelona and a watercolor of a couple walking hand in hand across a bridge with the Eiffel Tower looming behind them.
It was a small oil painting of a wharf at sunset. The entire work was suffused with crimson brush strokes that provided an overall impression of deep auburn twilight.
A man in a 1950's-style suit with a calf-length brown coat open to the wind was standing in front of a seafood stand. He had thrown his head back, and was holding a long, thin fish above his open mouth. Its shiny skin reflected the sunset off the water and the vendor, a large middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks, was laughing.
It was an odd little scene, and I couldn't help but think that trying to claw the tiny fish out of the painting would most likely drive Cairo right over the edge of whatever sanity he had left. As far as I was concerned, the Romans had a better deal going with grapes. But it was the only painting in the entire room with a fish in it.
"It's called De Vishandelaar," said Carolyn, turning to me. "It means The Fishmonger. It's Dutch."
She climbed up on one of the barstools and reached above her head to get the painting. This got me thinking about how I wouldn't need to go out and look for a pedestal, and then she almost lost her balance, which snapped me out of it.
"You'll have to help me," she said. "Grab my waist."
I grabbed, and she stretched herself out fully on her toes to reach the painting. I gulped air and tried to concentrate.
"You know," I said, almost sure that my voice hadn't just cracked like an adolescent schoolboy's, "you're pretty tall, and you're still having a hard time reaching that painting."
"It's okay," she said, as she lifted the painting off its hook.
"No, I mean even with my help, it's末"
"There," she said, lowering herself back onto her heels. "I've got it." I helped her down from the stool.
"Your father's accountant, Mr. Pliny. Is he a tall man?" I asked.
She giggled. "No. He's short and fat. Bald too." She looked up at the blank spot on the wall high above the bar. "Oh. I see what you mean."
We both looked down at the painting in her hands.
"But it's the only clue we've got," she said.
"It is," I confirmed. "Are you Dutch?"
"No."
"Do you by any chance have a seafood stand in your house?"
"No."
"Is he really about to drop that raw fish down his throat?"
Carolyn made a face and shuddered.
"Well, let's look at the back then," I said.
Carolyn turned the painting over and gently placed the frame down on the bar. A sheet of brown paper covered the back and sure enough, a small slit had been cut into one of the sides. I lifted the flap. There was something in there.
Jackpot.
I slipped two of my gloved fingers into the space, and pulled out a small makeshift envelope that had been fashioned out of a small square of magazine paper. I placed it down on the bar beside the painting as Carolyn leaned in close and slid her arm up against mine. It stayed there. We both looked down at the paper, and I guess she was thinking sleuthing thoughts. I was thinking that, Pears soap or not, I wanted to stay right there forever.
I gave myself a mental slap in the face, which stung in a theoretical sort of way, and turned my attention to the paper. I unfolded it carefully, revealing a small mound of white powder inside.
Carolyn laughed. I'd been around long enough to know what it was too. Cocaine. We had solved a mystery all right.
"This explains your sister's...." I didn't want to use the wrong word. I didn't want to appear undiplomatic.
"Enthusiasm?" said Carolyn. Damn. Good word. "She's probably hidden little envelopes all over the house." She smiled and shook her head.
"And I guess that explains who's been mucking with the security cameras," I said.
She refolded the paper and stuck it back inside the painting. I raised my eyebrows. She shrugged. "We'll get her into rehab. Right now we have other fish to fry." She climbed back onto the stool.
"Ha, ha," she said.
I steadied her waist again, celebrated the view, and gave thanks.
"You know," I said, "this is what, in my line of work, they call happenstance. Parallel serendipity of utilitarian inconsequence."
She replaced the painting and climbed back down. "You mean it's not the clue we were looking for."
"Well, sure." I coughed quietly. "You could put it that way."
"It's a false trail," she said. "A dead end. We're up the creek without a paddle."
She looked up at the painting, and then turned to me with an enigmatic smile that would have done Leonardo proud.
"I don't know about the creek part," I said, trying to retain my sense of logic in the face of her bewildering beauty. "Not really the same as the first two."
I glanced at my watch. "Anyway, we still have four minutes." I walked back to the table for another quick look. Numbers, flyers, and more numbers. Where was Rain Man when you needed him?
"I don't see anything," I said.
"I don't know much about Daddy's work," said Carolyn, also perusing the clutter. She shook her head slowly. "No. I'm sorry. I don't see anything either."
"How is this library organized?" I asked. "Is there a system?"
"Yes," she said immediately. She started pointing to various bookcases and cabinets around the room and rattled off subjects from the classics to modern American and British literature, as well as a varied collection of history, art and other nonfiction interests. She was obviously familiar with all of it, and I was impressed.
"...and then this entire section here is all business. Reports, shareholder information, that kind of stuff. It's all alphabetized."
The business shelves were indeed labeled with lettered, bronze-colored plates, but the section took up about six city blocks. This was getting us nowhere. Mr. Walsh would be back any minute, and I wasn't any closer to finding out what FISH meant than when I arrived.
I went over my options quickly, and settled on panic. I started pacing. My eyes raced over the books. I looked for anything to do with fish末cookbooks, angling, even card games for kids. Anything.
This was bad, because now I had that feeling. You know the one. Like when you're dreaming and you can't find the room for your final exam in high school, even though high school was a lifetime ago. You run down hallway after hallway and then you finally find the room and you have five minutes to write a three-hour exam and you don't know any of the answers. That feeling.
It was time to get out of the box.
I walked purposefully back to the table and stood beside Carolyn. I started clearing my mind of all distractions, and then sent Carolyn to the other end of the room and tried again. Better.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, reopened them and looked down at the table, allowing everything to wash over me like images in a vision. If I found myself paying attention to details, I let my mind go blank and started again. Graphs and figures swam in front of me, merging with acronyms and company logos. Patterns formed, ebbing and flowing around my subconscious like running water. Indian mystics had used this ethereal meditation technique for millennia. I had learned it after a Dead show in Buffalo from a stoned friend of my parents called Crazy Pete.
When I knew I was ready, I walked over to a bookcase at random and let my gaze drift over the titles on the shelves. Nothing emerged as significant, so I turned to another bookcase, closed my eyes, reopened them and tried again.
I went on to another. My mind was fully open and cosmically aware. I was filled with absolute certainty that the truth would show itself. I was serene. I was at one with末
TO BE CONTINUED... (Installment THREE appearing in Fall 2007 Issue) SF Johnston ｩ 2007 |
