Chapter Thirty
“Now, about this porter.” Enid was determined, this time.
“What porter?” Pluck was pacing the interview room, trying to still his roiling thoughts.
“Curtis.”
“What, what?!”
“The porter, ‘Curtis’! Remember? Remember what Larry told us? That he’d—”
“Yes, yes! Just forget about that, will you?!”
Bartoff was trying to teach his dog to play patty-cake. Enid got up, went over to Pluck, grabbed him by the arm to keep him in one place and whispered to him: “Do you remember your promise to show me some respect?”
Pluck mumbled something resentful.
“Now sit down and let me call for Curtis the porter.”
“Not now. Later. We’ve scheduled Mister Stoupes, remember? He’s promised to come.”
Enid sat Pluck down in his seat and smoothed the dandruff off his shoulders. “We needn’t call Mister Stoupes. I assure you he can have been in no way involved with any murder, and consequently has nothing to offer this investigation.”
Pluck eyed her—he shut one eye and peered at her with the other, as if squinting through a telescope. “How can you be sure?”
She shrugged and sat down, and fiddled with her bun of hair. “A woman has her intuition, hasn’t she?”
“No, no, it isn’t that, is it?” He took her hand—she whisked it away, instinctively, in reaction to the iciness and sliminess of his. “Are you in love with Stoupes, Miss Trojczakowski?”
“Don’t be absurd!”
“Will you do me the kindness of looking me in the eye and saying so?”
She turned and looked him in the eye and enunciated with painstaking deliberateness: “I am not in love with Mister Stoupes. Satisfied?”
He sighed, and slapped the bell to summon Larry. “I am never that, Miss Trojczakowski, I assure you.”
While Larry went off to escort Stoupes to the room, Pluck nudged Bartoff—who was giggling delightedly at Sam’s clumsy attempts to slap his paws against his master’s—and whispered, “I’ll need your help with this one, old boy.”
Bartoff nodded, patted Sam and ensconced him beneath his seat. “Understood, Inspector.”
“At your highest volume, if you please.”
“Understood.”
It was at that moment that Stoupes strode in, flashing an altogether winning smile.
“Good morning, Inspector, Miss Trojczakowski, Mister Bartoff.”
“Please be so good as to sit down, kind sir,” Pluck invited.
“Sit down!” Bartoff screamed, true to form.
Stoupes, a bit taken aback at the blast of sound, quickly restored his smile to its previous place, i.e., on his lips, and sat down.
“A drink of refreshing melted mountain snow, monsieur?” Pluck rose with the jug of water in his hand.
“No thank you, Inspector.”
“Eh? What was that?”
“What did you say?!” screamed Bartoff.
“I politely declined your offer of water, sir,” Glen explained.
“Ah! I see.” Pluck looked to the jug, then quickly back to Stoupes. “But you wouldn’t mind if I enjoyed some myself?”
“Not a bit.”
Pluck eyed him with implacable nerve—had he got him so swiftly? He asked slowly: “Are you sure. . .Mister Stoupes?”
“Why, yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Pluck laughed. “I hardly think that a sensible question.” He turned quickly to Enid: “Do you, Miss Trojczakowski?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Inspector. As far as I heard, you offered the man water, and he declined. That’s the end of it.”
“An insensible question!” Bartoff boomed.
“Thank you, Mister Bartoff.” Pluck bowed.
“Not at all, sir.” Bartoff returned the bow. Then Pluck, perhaps forgetting that he had bowed first, interpreted Bartoff’s bow as the introductory bow in what was destined to be a delightful series of bows, each bow deeper and more communicative of respect than the last, and so embarked upon a responsive bow, which was in turn echoed by a bow from Bartoff, and so on. Stoupes watched them bowing, back and forth, and either had no comment on the proceedings to make, or chose, for reasons of his own, to keep his comment to himself. Eventually, intent on outdoing Bartoff in the depth and reverence of his bows, Pluck bowed so deeply that he fell, face-forward, into Bartoff’s stomach, bounced backwards off the brawny man’s adamantine abdomen, and onto Enid, who collapsed with Pluck and her chair to the floor. She shoved him off her with a few choice yet profoundly unladylike imprecations, then, having risen on her own (repulsing his grovelling offer to help), righted her chair and re-seated herself, apologised for her outburst to all three gentlemen present, and begged Pluck to proceed with the interview. Pluck, in response, bowed to her—repeatedly.
“I beg you, sir, might we get on with the interview?” repeated Enid. “I’m sure Mister Stoupes would be happy to assist in any way.”
“Indeed I would,” agreed Stoupes.
“Not so fast,” cautioned Pluck, reluctantly straightening up and sitting back down. “I’d first like to get to the bottom of this water business.”
“Have some water!” Bartoff boomed to Stoupes.
“No thank you.”
Pluck stared at him. “. . .What are you talking about?” he finally asked.
“Could we please get on with it?” Enid pleaded.
Pluck waved her away, still glaring at Stoupes. “No, no. This is important. I think we’re finally getting somewhere with this line of inquiry.”
“Really?” asked Stoupes. “Do you figure that by harping on over whether I’d like any water, you might be led to the identity of the murderer?”
“Indeed,” nodded Pluck, stroking the smooth, perspiring glass of the jug and staring at Stoupes with renewed interest. “Indeed. For I happen to know as a fact that the murderer, whoever he may be—whether he’s concealed himself somewhere in the bowels of the hotel, or, perhaps, sat in a chair in this room across from me this very moment—abstained from the consumption of water for up to forty-eight hours prior to the deed!”
“Murderers don’t like water!” Bartoff shouted.
“How do you know that?” asked Enid.
“My question exactly,” added Stoupes.
“And yet, a pointless question, all the same,” Pluck dismissed. “For it’s become clear to me, over the course of this interview, that the consumption or lack thereof of the refreshing, restoring, irreplaceable drink known as ‘water’ is the key to this whole conundrum.”
“Water!” Bartoff shouted.
“Water!” Pluck toasted, raising his glass and clinking it with Bartoff’s, then turning to Enid, who sat, arms folded in annoyance, her water untouched. Pluck made a quick mental note that she, his co-investigator and friend, did not appear to like water, and continued: “Water! That sublimest of the elements, that liquid rendering of Heaven, a reification of—”
“All right, you’ve convinced me,” laughed Stoupes. “Go on. I’ll have a glass of water.”
Pluck froze, shocked.
“. . .I said I’d be happy to enjoy some of your lauded water. Go on—pour me a glass.”
Pluck looked to Bartoff, who was equally flummoxed, then back to Stoupes. He chuckled, and pulled his collar from his neck; it was suddenly too tight.
“. . .I’m not sure I understand,” he admitted.
“Just pour him a glass of water, won’t you?” Enid sighed.
Stoupes was laughing. “Unless you don’t really want me to have a drink, after all.”
“No! Of course I want you to drink!” spat Pluck.
“He wants you to drink!” shouted Bartoff.
“Then pour him the water so we can get on with it!” insisted Enid. “Here, let me.”
“No!” Pluck cradled the jug in the crook of his arm and held it away from her. “I’ll pour it! I will! . . .Just as soon as I remember how.”
“Would you like me—” began Stoupes, before Bartoff interrupted:
“Give him time to think, man!”
Hands shaking, Pluck picked up his own glass, which was full, and poured water from the jug: it immediately overflowed onto the papers on the table.
“Idiot!” shouted Pluck, at Stoupes. “Do you see what you’ve made me do?!”
“Idiot!” Bartoff shouted at Stoupes.
“It wasn’t his fault!” Enid felt the need to defend the interviewee.
“Oh yes it was!” snarled Pluck, wiping up the water from the papers with a handful of screwed-up other papers, “with his incessant demands for water!” After bunching up the papers and tossing them to the floor, Pluck began to pour again, into the same cup, which promptly overflowed.
“Damn!” he shouted.
“Damn!” echoed Bartoff.
“Are you trying to sabotage this investigation?!” Pluck accused Stoupes.
“Hardly. But I am getting a little thirsty, with all this interesting conversation. Do you think I could have that glass of water now?”
Pluck gritted his teeth, dug his (incompetently manicured) nails into his palms, and shook his fists. “Will you never relent?! What is this obsession with water, man?!”
Stoupes laughed. “It is rather necessary for the sustainment of one’s life, you know.”
“And maintaining the continuity of your measly, wretched life is so important to you, I suppose!”
Enid placed a calming hand on Pluck’s arm, and softly suggested: “Why don’t you try pouring the water into one of the empty glasses?”
“There’s hardly any water left in the jug, thanks to him!” Pluck wailed. It looked as if he might start to cry.
“Thank you very much!” Bartoff shouted at Stoupes, with forceful, fist-to-the-face sarcasm.
Pluck raised both his hands to signal that he demanded immediate, unequivocal silence. His authority having achieved that, he picked up the jug in one hand, an empty glass in the other, and poured, but shook them both so much that all of the water spilled onto Enid’s lap. She jumped up and cursed him. Pluck hung his head.
She sat back down, dabbing at her dress with a napkin. “I am sorry that I swore,” she said, in what was becoming something of a habit.
“I forgive you!” announced Pluck with sweeping magnanimity.
“Blessed soul!” Bartoff boomed of Pluck.
Pluck, annoyed with the ineptitude with which Enid was drying her dress, whisked the napkin from her fingers and began vigorously dabbing at her lap himself. She batted his hand away, slapped his cheek and shouted: “Pig!”
At that exclamation, Pluck leapt onto the table and hysterically scanned the floor for runaway swine. “What? Where?”
Stoupes guffawed. “Let me know when the Pluck and Trojczakowski act will be at the local music hall, won’t you? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Ever masterful at redirecting attention, Pluck, from his position atop the table, stamped on the bell to summon Larry. Larry appeared at once, saluting with noticeably flaccid hand. “Inspector?”
“You fucking imbecile!” Pluck screamed at him. “What do you mean by stocking the interview room with only one jug of water?! And a trick jug that dribbles water instead of containing it, at that?! From now on, I demand four jugs, of pristine mountain snowmelt, in this room at all times, exchanged for fresh supplies each half-hour, on the half-hour! Do you hear me?!”
“Do it now!” screamed Bartoff, and moved as if he would attack the lad; Larry ran out.
Bartoff and Enid helped Pluck, who was shaking violently, down from the table and eased him into his seat. The inspector gripped his right forearm in his left hand and tried to steady it. He was panting something fierce. Bartoff fanned him with a paper; Pluck nodded his appreciation.
“Are you all right, Inspector?” asked Stoupes with a grin. “Would you like a glass of water, to calm your nerves?”
“Heathen!” Pluck hissed between his teeth. “Unsalvageable reprobate!”
“And a very pleasant afternoon to you too, sir.”
Soon enough, Larry returned, carrying a new jug of water, followed by three other porters, each of whom carried his own. Pluck grabbed the jug out of Larry’s hands, examined it up and down, and stuck a finger inside; he whipped it out, wincing.
“It’s cold!”
“You asked for snowmelt, sir.”
“But I wanted it warmed up, obviously, cretin!”
The interview remained stalled while Larry and the porters took the water to be heated, then brought it back. Pluck dipped in a finger and whipped it out, wincing.
“I’ve burnt my finger! You ass!”
He kicked Larry in the shin and threw down the jug, which shattered.
“Lukewarm!” Pluck shouted.
“He wants the water lukewarm!” Bartoff added, helpfully.
The ritual was repeated, and this time, after inserting his finger into the jug, wincing aforehand, he opened his eyes in pleased surprise. He withdrew his finger, licked the droplets thereupon, and nodded. “Well done, my child. You’ll make a fine valet yet.” Larry remained stoical, waiting to be dismissed. He was.
“Now then, monsieur,” began Pluck, recovering some of his erstwhile grandeur, “I ask you again: would you, or would you not, like a glass of water?”
“Yes, please,” Stoupes answered. “You won’t be surprised to hear that I’m desperately parched by now.”
Pluck let that remark pass, engaged as he was with the careful pouring of lukewarm water from the non-trick jug into an empty glass (never let it be said that the good inspector failed to learn from his setbacks). Triumphant, he leant gracefully over the table to hand the three-quarter-full glass to his nemesis, pinky stuck out with a flourish. The glass having thus changed hands, Pluck sat down, crossed his legs, and awaited the total victory he felt sure was to follow.
Stoupes raised the rim of the glass to his lips, without preamble but with, thought Pluck, prodigiously fateful hubris. The glass hovered in the air; the water dislodged, tilted and began to flow down Stoupes’s cursed oesophagus. Pluck held his breath and watched—would he cough it out? Could he really keep it down? Would it leak out his ears, or cause his internal plumbing to seize up?
. . . . . .To Pluck’s overwhelming disappointment, Stoupes swallowed it, relished it, and emitted a satisfied “Ah! Most refreshing! I’ve got to hand it to you, Inspector, you were right—water is indeed an exemplary beverage. And you sure do pour a mean glass of it!” The firelight lapped over the man’s outline, never settling on any patch for long, as if in awe of him. “Now tell me, Inspector, if you don’t mind. . .”
Pluck, on the verge of admitting defeat and publicly impaling himself with his pen, raised his eyelids and responded, “What is it?”
“Whatever happened to your eye?”
“Oh. . .you mean, the lashes?”
“Yes—exactly. What happened to your lashes?”
Pluck shrugged, no longer caring what happened to him or to any of them. “They melted off whilst I was sought to sip from a geyser above a subterranean volcano as a boy.”
“Indeed! Most remarkable. And what about that big ugly gash on the side of your face?”
“What face?” asked Pluck.
“Excuse me—‘What face’?”
“Yes, do you not understand my question?”
“No, not really. For when I said, ‘your face’, I thought I made it clear—”
“I meant to say, ‘What gash’?”
“Oh—well, that one, there, on the side of your face. Your face.”
Pluck shrugged. “Polar bear,” he said simply.
“Ah. I see.”
There was silence in the room while Pluck considered how to offer his surrender in the most dignified manner left to him.
“Are you all right?” Enid asked.
“Shh. I’m thinking.”
“Let the man think!” Bartoff screamed.
“Oh, shut up!” said Enid.
Bartoff looked hurt. Unseen, he reached under his chair to stroke Sam and in that way glean some tender affection.
Pluck retreated to internal monologue, albeit one represented here in free indirect speech: Would he let this offensive turd get the better of him? Of him, Thaddeus Pluck? Yes! No, no, he meant no! A thousand times no! A million times no! A billion times no! . . .He didn’t know what came after that—this was before the days of mind-goggling national debt, you understand—but felt that a billion times should suffice for anything.
Having wrenched himself out of his grave, back to full-blooded life, life, with all its majesty and promise, Pluck shoved his notes aside, leant back with his hands clasping the back of his head, and asked with superhuman casualness: “So, Mister Stoupes—how’s the weather in the Yukon this time of year? Rather draughty, I expect.”
Stoupes was exiled from his daydream—something about Enid’s thighs straddling his face—and, after clearing his throat, answered: “I wouldn’t know, Inspector, as I’ve never been to the Yukon.”
“Really? Is that so?”
“It’s so.”
“Hm.” Pluck sat up, took a drink of water, which refreshed him no end, and continued his onward push: “And yet, I know for a fact that the dead man, I mean Mister Larry Snede Snilliams, that his very last words before being carved into thin, ham-like slices were, and I quote: ‘Stoupes is Yukon born and bred.’ End quote.”
“I find that rather hard to believe, Inspector.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
“Unless, of course, you were present at the time of the fellow’s death.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I thought it must be obvious.”
“Many things that may seem obvious to others are not so obvious to the criminological mind. Enlighten me, sir.”
“Well, if you weren’t present at the man’s death—”
“Yes?”
“—Then how would you know what his last words were?”
Pluck shrugged. “He wrote them.”
“Where? On a suicide note?”
“Yes. Maybe.”
“Before he cut himself to ribbons?”
“Yes. Perhaps.”
“But I thought it was supposed to be murder.”
“That’s right. It was.”
“And furthermore, wasn’t Snede bludgeoned to death with a blunt instrument?”
“Oh, so not only are you not Yukonese, but you’re a police inspector now—is that right?”