Chapter Fifty
Does the reader remember the unnamed gentleman who had an altercation with Sanns in the corridor a while back? You do? Very good. But, sad to say, he plays no further role here.
Let’s move on.
A note was discovered, in different handwriting from that of the notorious “Arsehole” epistle, in a cupboard, beneath a pile of towels, and was reported to Herr Voot by the cleaning lady named Janice (who was herself, due to her character and reputation, placed above all suspicion). Voot read the note—which was, he was thankful to observe, free of faeces—before requesting the presence of Enid and Gangakanta in his office. Both arrived, somewhat sullen, clearly wishing to be elsewhere, and barely able to summon the requisite enthusiasm to think about such matters so early in the morning.
Still, they were too polite to openly refuse to read the note, once they had been apprised of its origins, so read it they did. It said:
I killed Snede, Pluck, Feosalma, Sanns, and Larry. I had no help.
I had no reason, save the confidence that these acts would serve to illustrate the randomness of the universe. I confess all.
Do with me what you will.
Warm regards,
Kivi Brotherus
Voot leant his elbows on his desk, laced his fingers, and looked on the investigators expectantly, as if to ask, “Well?” When no answer was forthcoming, he was forced to ask, in actuality: “Well?”
“It’s absurd,” judged Enid. “A joke. Nothing more. What’s further, I fail to see why you felt it necessary to waste our time with it.”
“You don’t think Brotherus had anything to do with the murders?”
“He’s a feeble little rodent. He might very well have written this letter, in an effort to gain attention for who knows what mad purpose. But I can’t see him as being capable of any active deed like murder.”
Voot turned to Gangakanta. The latter said nothing; he was focussed on the phrase “the randomness of the universe”.
“Sri Gangakanta?” Voot prompted him.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Your thoughts, monsieur?”
“Thoughts about what, please, sir?”
Voot indicated the letter.
“Ah. Well, Brotherus might have written it. Brotherus might have killed one, or more, of these people. Who can say, really?” He turned to Enid. “Who can say anything?”
Enid shrugged.
Voot looked at them both curiously.
“What about this inclusion of Larry in the list of victims?” he asked.
Enid shrugged. Gangakanta yawned.
“You don’t see it as a threat? That Larry might be the next victim?”
“We’ve all got to die,” opined Gangakanta. “Do you think the corpse of a murder victim is any more aggrieved at his fate than the corpse of a man who died in his sleep, surrounded by loved ones, at a ripe old age? Why don’t you ask them? Go on—find a couple of corpses and ask them.” He shrugged. “I doubt you’ll hear many complaints.”
Voot sucked his teeth—a most displeasing sound. “I must admit, Miss Trojczakowski, Sri Gangakanta, that I was expecting a little more interest from the two of you.”
“If you’d like to take over the investigation. . .” Enid suggested.
“No, no, I quite have my hands full with the dwindling supplies of food, disappearing firewood, general unrest and slow breakdown in order that seem to be afflicting the hotel.”
“Perhaps we should have a word with Herra Brotherus,” Gangakanta, reluctantly, proposed.
“And with Larry,” added Enid, “to make sure he’s not yet dead.”