Chapter Thirty-Three
And now, Reader, I must ask you to pardon me once again for suspending the story to address you explicitly. But you’ll be glad that I did. I propose, now, to speed up our slow slog through the narrative; Pluck, and we, have got many more guests and staff to interview, and, as this volume in no way aspires to the condition of verbatim transcript of the proceedings, I will endeavour to spare you the more abjectly pointless episodes, and merely serve up the more middlingly pointless ones.
We may start with Herra Kivi Hjalmar Booboo Brotherus, a Finnish banker who, upon entering the interview room that morning, apologised profusely for various matters he mumbled uncertainly about.
“Please, Herra Brotherus, sit,” Pluck invited. To Pluck’s right, Bartoff, remnants of makeup still streaking his cheeks, massaged Sam under the chin. To his left, Enid, unacquainted with the events in Mister Stoupes’ room of early that morning, looked on the little banker, with his wrinkly bald head, habitually bitten lower lip, spherical torso and tiny legs, and wished the best for him (such was the generosity of her heart).
“Excuse me, sir, if I was a little late.”
“Not at all,” answered Pluck. “You were just on time.”
“And I must apologise if I am deficient in looking my interrogator directly in the eye. It’s a weakness of mine, I’m afraid, ingrained, and something I’ve never been able to overcome, no matter how I try.”
“I assure you, Herra Brotherus—”
“And I’d like to apologise in advance, for the record, if I at any time during the proceedings fail to address any of my examiners with the correct honorific.”
“We will do our best to put you at ease, sir.”
“And, well. . .may I mention an unmentionable subject, in the presence of a lady?”
Pluck looked to Enid, who signalled with a stern look back that she had no intention of being dispatched to the nursery.
“Miss Trojczakowski is well acquainted with the unmentionables of this world, I assure you, sir. Pray proceed.”
“It is just that I’ve for a long while been having problems with my—my bowels, sir.”
“Ah.”
“And so if—”
“I quite understand. Have you any other notices to serve?”
“Well. . .”
“What is it, please, Herra Brotherus?”
“May I be so bold as to put a modest question, myself, before the interview properly begins—that is to say, if it hasn’t properly begun already?”
“Of course, sir. We wouldn’t wish to be uncivil, or to cause undue anxiety. I want this to be a pleasant, informal chat, in every particular.”
“Thank you, kind Inspector. In that case, would you please tell me what is the matter with your eye? I refer specifically to the prominent absence of eyelashes over that, your right eye.”
Pluck sighed. “Well, sir, since you ask, I might as well tell you that they blew off in the wind.”
“Really!”
“Yes—just like that!” Pluck snapped his fingers, to indicate the brevity of the event. “That was how quickly it occurred!” he reinforced, verbally.
“How frightful!”
“You needn’t tell me, sir.”
“And where was this, Inspector?”
“On the Cap de la Circoncision, it need hardly be said, during an arctic blast. Polar bears tumbled over, and snow foxes flipped up into the clouds. In sum, I would classify it as an experience at once horrifying and glorious.”
“That is breathtaking, sir!”
“Thank you. And now, Herra Brotherus—why did you kill Larry Snipp?”
The poor man giggled, then, realising it hadn’t been intended as a joke, covered his mouth—both hands—and looked over his fingers in terror.
“I—I—”
“Murderer!” Bartoff shouted. “Filthy scum!”
Pluck stood, and began pacing, something he liked to do while he lectured. “It’s quite clear from everything you’ve volunteered already that you tortured, disgraced and executed the poor clerk to satisfy your own unnatural standards of justice.”
“Barbarian!” screamed Bartoff. “Bring the guillotine!”
Herra Brotherus shrank in his seat, a frightened, farting little bird.
“Perhaps I might pose a question more pertinent to the evidence,” Enid ventured.
Pluck looked on her with raised brow. “By all means, Miss Trojczakowski. Proceed.”
Enid stood, walked around the table, went over to the banker, bent a little at the waist, took his chin in her hand, and compelled him to look her in the eye.
“Where were you at three o’clock in the afternoon on the day of the murder?” she asked him softly.
“I—I—I—I. . .” He blinked, repeatedly, then finally closed his eyes, unable to bear it. “I was in your bed.”
“What!” exclaimed Pluck.
“Off with his head!” Bartoff shouted.
“What do you mean?” asked Enid, dropping his chin and moving away.
“Don’t you remember?” pleaded Herra Brotherus, growing tinier every moment. “I was in your bed, debasing myself for your own erotic pleasure.”
“It’s a lie!” she yelled. “What’s the matter with you?!”
Pluck came up and slapped him on the face. “Did you kill Larry?! Yes or no!”
“Yes!” he wept. “Yes, yes! I killed him! I killed him with Miss Trojczakowski!”
“Don’t be an idiot!” she shouted, and ran up and punched him hard in the nose, which exploded, mucus and blood splattering on all of them. As for his flatulence: well, what had started as a squeaking trickle now burst into a roaring detonation.
“His evidence is tainted!” Pluck declared. “He’s a harmless, mindless fool. Lock him away for his own protection, and call that whingeing maid to clean up this mess.”