“Charles! Look here! Look what our friend the postman has brought today!” If you ever need pieces of paper waved in your face, Boxer’s the one to call. “Boxer! You’re positively overworking that postman. Are you trying to keep him away from your cousin Mina?” “No, no. He said it was no extra effort going from your letterbox to mine. Really, Charles, you exaggerate.” “So, what did he bring this time, eh?” “Something rather intriguing, I would say. And I need your knowledge to help figure it out.”
“I’m waiting, Boxer. Shall I read it for you?”
“No!” He pulled the paper back from my reach. “I am perfectly capable of reading it. Although the handwriting is rather loopy. It says –
Dear Mr Boxer,
My name is Dora Spinelli. As I understand, you have bought the house which used to belong to my uncle Vittorio Marini.
“Boxer! You bought that house? I thought you were renting.”
“Please be quiet, Charles. It is all part of the story I am telling you. Listen –
After the sudden death of my late husband, I went to Uncle Vito to live and help him in his old age. I became more than a housekeeper —
“No, Charles, not what you are thinking.”
I became more than a housekeeper and was more like a daughter to him. When he passed over, I was inconsolable for months. Since then, I have sought help and sympathy from a lady recommended to me by friends, Madame Blattinsky, a spiritualist and medium. Together we have contacted dear Uncle Vito in the other world. And each time, he says the same thing to me – Go to my house to see me in person. Mr Boxer, I need hardly tell you that I do not wish to inconvenience you in the least!’ (She underlined that phrase.) ‘Uncle says that I must sit at his desk – alone – and wait for him. He means that big old desk that is, or was, in his little study. It was where he wrote so many of his poems. I hope it is still there. Uncle says that it is. May I please come by and contact Uncle in this way? If I visit in one week from Friday, that will give you enough time to consider. I am quite confident that you will consent!
“Confident enough, Charles, not to give me her address or telephone number.”
I shall call on you Friday week at four in the afternoon. This is the hour agreed upon by Uncle Vito. Please do not disappoint him.
In hope,
Dora Spinelli
P.S. I realise that, as a man, you are not so sensitive regarding the spirit world as we women are. We are more receptive to the inner, immaterial messages sent from the other side. I will not hold it against you if you are sceptical of my wishes.
P.P.S. If you have any requests for Uncle Vito to contact any of your dear departed, please write it on a paper to give me before my reunion with him!
Boxer waited silently for my reaction. I was trying not to laugh.
“Well, Charles? Say something!”
“Preposterous! I came here ten years ago and never saw any old Italian gentleman. He must have been kept well hidden. And as for a housekeeper or niece, I really couldn’t say. What did you do, buy all the contents of the house as well?”
“It went all as one lot at the auction. Some attempt had been made at clearing it out, but there was still enough left that I could move in right away.”
“And the desk?”
“Is still there. I think it was probably too big to get it out of the door. It must have been built right in the room itself. You have not seen it? Let us go over to look at it.”
“This house was rented for the last few years, I know, Boxer. Students, I think. Sort of a commune.”
“Hippies?”
“Ha ha! There aren’t hippies anymore, Boxer. No, but they might have used drugs. Lots of people of all ages coming and going. Used to fly propaganda banners from the balcony. Then about six months before you came here, they all got evicted.”
“Ah! Charles, that explains the smell. So — here is the desk. I have not yet looked too carefully at it. Wait, I shall turn on a lamp. Beautiful, I must say!”
“The top – it’s all parquetry!”
“Marquetry, Charles. There is a difference. Yes, each of these larger squares has been made from smaller pieces, and they from yet even smaller pieces. The squares are fitted in so well with all the curves matching, you do not even see the — Wait! Look here.”
“What is it?”
“This square just at the back corner – here. Is it put in wrong? Or is it just the light? The wood pattern does not quite match. You see?”
“Ah, yes. It must have got loose at one time and fallen out. Then someone put it back wrong. Still, it’s a nearly perfect fit.”
“So, this is the desk at which our Miss Dora wants to sit to commune with Uncle Vito. Hmm. I wonder. Charles – open that drawer on this side. Take it all the way out. Nothing inside? Good. What do you see behind it?”
“Just the back panel of the desk.”
“Put the drawer on top of the desk. All right. All the way to the front.”
“Boxer!”
“Yes, I see. That wrongly laid square at the back is not covered by the drawer. That is a good, oh, twenty centimetres, I would say. Get that walking stick there in the corner. Measure the space inside. Now the drawer.”
“Boxer!”
“Yes, I know. Give me that letter opener over there. I shall just pry up this square. It is quite tight, but not glued. There! Now, what is underneath? Wood.”
“Boxer!”
“Yes. Now what is it, Charles?”
“Keep going! Pry up the wood underneath. I’ll bet that it’s just another square.”
Surprisingly, Boxer obeyed without a word. He hummed as he worked, getting the letter opener wedged into a crack in the underlying panel. With a deft twist, he popped the lower square out – then stopped.
“Charles, this may be booby-trapped!” I thought he was joking. “No, do not laugh, please, Charles. I have a torch in the kitchen on the shelf. Could you bring it, please?”
To keep silent was hard enough until I got to the kitchen, but then I burst out laughing, trying to disguise the noise from Boxer by scuffling my feet. I brought back the torch. Boxer gingerly shone the lamp into the hole in the desktop, then stuck in one end of the walking stick and rattled it along the sides. No hidden darts, poisoned with curare, sprang out. We both were secretly rather disappointed, I imagine.
Next in went Boxer’s hand. He dramatically pulled up one, two, three, four bars of something wrapped in metal foil. Each was about the size and shape of a large box of toothpaste, or denture adhesive, if that’s your age group.
“They are heavy, Charles – about the weight of a tube of – uh – shaving cream? No, heavier. I had better be careful, eh, my friend?”
“Smell it.”
“Ahh! Oh! Very pungent, like mustard or horseradish. Or cordite.”
He unwrapped a corner and examined the substance. Then he scraped off the tiniest of slivers from the block with the nail of his little finger and tasted it.
“Smash. About as pure as can be, I would say. Must be a kilo of it here. Worth at least, oh, a good — “
“What’s smash, Boxer? A drug? An explosive?”
“It is both, actually. Very, very dangerous.”
“So this is what Dora is really after, do you think?”
“Of course. Yes. Charles – I have an idea. Measure these blocks and weigh them. Then we buy boxes of harissa or anchovy paste or whatever matches in size and weight and shape. We wrap them in metal foil, replace them here, and let Miss Dora think she has tricked us.”
“Meanwhile, we must turn these over to the police, Boxer. Especially if it’s so dangerous. I assume possession of smash is illegal?”
“You are right, Charles, on all counts. So, we have until next Friday. In that time we should check the rest of the desk for other secrets.”
Our plan was to admit Dora into Boxer’s house, whilst I was to hide behind the curtain in the room with the desk. Boxer would leave her alone to await her uncle’s spirit.
As she walked up the front path, I was watching her. I recognised her as one of the tenants of the house before Boxer bought it. I scurried down to my hiding spot. Boxer had told me to expect a slight change in the scenario.
He showed Dora into the study, soundly patting the desk to demonstrate its presence, then he spoke. “Miss Spinelli, I leave you here alone in hopes that your uncle will manifest himself in some way. Be careful, though. The spirits can be deceptive. I shall be in the kitchen when you need to find me. There is the chair.”
The woman did not move until Boxer had shut the door. She did not sit, but went directly to the corner of the desk which had contained the smash. I decided to change the scenario a bit myself. I let out a low, nearly inaudible moan, slowly increasing in volume and pitch. Then I stopped. The woman had been startled and gave a quiet hiccoughing sound. She looked around the room, then returned to her task. Boxer had left the letter opener conveniently within reach, and she used it to pry up the two layers of wood.
She bent her head to the hole, then hesitated. She stuck her hand in, moving her fingers around, making a scrabbling noise. Then she gave a sound of frustration and shock. I moaned again, and at the same time Boxer opened the study door.
“Ah, Miss Spinelli, perhaps you are looking for these?” He held out the four foil-wrapped boxes of dental adhesive. “I found them quite by accident.”
“Give me those! They’re mine!”
“Of course! I meant only to keep them safe for you. I have no idea what they are, but surely they are not mine.”
Boxer gave the woman the four bars, and she put them into her handbag. Then he motioned to me to emerge from where I had been watching her.
“This man has observed that you went directly to the spot where these had been hidden, am I correct, Mr Ross? Yes. Therefore, these must be yours, must belong to you.”
“I – I knew about them from Uncle. That was his message from beyond. Yes, they are mine, because of that. His message was quite clear, you see.”
“Certainly. A clear case of delayed possession. Now, are you leaving without saying goodbye to Uncle Vito? Perhaps he is waiting for you outside.”
The woman looked puzzled but allowed Boxer to show her out. An undercover policeman was waiting to follow her home. I only wish we could have seen her face when she discovered the Kuki-Dent.
“Well, Charles, I suppose the police will need to search the house for any more drug caches now. Still, it is a small price we pay for security and peace of mind. Always keep a clean house, Charles. Always keep a clean house.”
David Pearce ist ein Schweizer Schriftsteller, wohnt seit 2000 in Olten und hat amerikanische, englische und französische Wurzeln. Er schreibt auf Englisch Kurzgeschichten, Romane und Theaterstücke.
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