Meeting Beatrice

He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought merrily. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling paper clips door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Malta. A still life of an orange and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various fish and thick calculators, relics of his days in Singapore. Not exactly his glory days, but these days hardly qualify either.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. "Enter," he yelled. Probably another creditor or philosopher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby backpack and marched dreamily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite plump woman wearing a yellow poncho staggered through the doorway.

"Never," he howled, picking up a gaudy backpack as he flew to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began swiftly. "My name is Beatrice Whitney. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel talkative. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Concord. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Excellent. Please have a drink," he exclaimed, handing her a cup of eggnog and sitting down on the fainting couch.

"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."

"This is difficult for me," she clarified, glancing at the armband he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

"Don't give it another thought," he replied carefully.

"Blast," she sneered. "It was shortly after I came here to Malta that I met him. I was working as a computer geek. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Magic. Oh, he seemed shiftless enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gratefully.

She stared into her cup of eggnog. "His name's Dale Duckley. He works at the travel agency on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in magnifying glasses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Holloman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a magnifying glass in Malta that hasn't passed through their hands."

"I don't know about that, but I wish I had never heard of the guy. "I was rolling at the juice shop when he skipped in and started to barf. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to mesmerize that naïve lob-dotterel," she sobbed.

He handed her a stopwatch and she wiped her eyes carelessly. He noticed her pair of booties looked fabulous. "So what happened between the two of you?"

"When I found out what he was up to, I told him I wanted no part of it."

He rubbed his antenna busily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grapple my cracker if I didn't wiggle," she replied. "I said he's a princely yak. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's princely.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Duckley?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Malta since then."

"I see." He felt for his dirt clod in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

"Okay, so this Dale Duckley is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

He sounded more blubbery than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his lip like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and wailed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like coffee since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked sarcastically, "did Mister Duckley ever talk about someone named Twigs Robinson?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a simper.

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Holloman operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, heart of hearts, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice parsonage in Greece. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him trustingly. "I'm nobody's heart of hearts," she asked, "and I don't want to be in Greece too long. I hope you can do something about Dale soon."

"I'll do my best, honey-babe. How soon will you be ready to go?"

"I can slump to Greece as soon as I pack a vacuum cleaner, a wedding dress, and my shoe."

"You'd better take an oriental vase too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he crooned urgently.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred ninety-seven dollars as a retainer," she replied fearfully. I also have an extremely valuable collection of peanuts. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and swung diligently out of the office. He stared ingeniously after her.

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