Read Waiting for Godalming for Free Online Page B

guy who left it here. By using certain psychic powers that I don’t like to talk about, I can conjure up a mental visualization of the card’s owner, by tuning myself to the cosmic vibrations emanating from the card. I’m already getting an image of Mike Mazurki, with a hint of Brian Donleavy over the eyes and a voice like the legendary Charles L—”
    “I’ll leave you to it then,” says Fangio. “I’ll go serve the customer. Sorry to keep you waiting there, Mr Cormerant.”
    “What?”
     
    I bid the guy the big hello and made my presence felt. The hand that held his liquor was shaking more than a go-go-dancing vibrator demonstrator with a bad case of St Vitus. Or possibly just a little less. Who am I to say?
    I looked the fella up and down and then from side to side. He had a definite hint of Brian Donleavy over the eyes. And there was more than a trace of the legendary Charles in the voice he used to speak with. But the thing that struck me most about him had to be his hat.
    “Is that a Rondo?” says I, admiring the cut of his jib.
    “No,” says he. “It’s a bowler.”
    We established ourselves at the table near the rear. The one to the left of the gents. It’s a bit of a favourite with me. Secluded. Out of the way. That hint of exclusivity that offers the client confidence. Muted lighting that catches my noble profile just so in the tinted wall mirror and a lot of firm support in the seat, which can be handy if your piles are playing up.
    “So,” says I, when we’ve comfied ourselves, “what’s the deal here, fella?”
    “My name is—”
    “Cormerant,” says I.
    “Cormerant,” says he. “And I work for—”
    “The Ministry of Serendipity,” says I.
    “The Ministry of Serendipity,” says he. “And I …”
    I paused.
    “What?”
    “What?”
    “What are you pausing for?” says he.
    “I wasn’t pausing,” says I. “I was waiting for you to continue. You paused first.”
    “Well, you kept interrupting.”
    “I wasn’t interrupting. I was anticipating.”
    “That’s the same as interrupting, if you butt in. That’s interrupting.”
    I leaned across the table and beckoned the guy towards me. As he leaned forward, I butted him right in the face.
    He fell back gasping and clawing at his bloodied nose.
    “What did you do that for?” he mumbled, pulling out an oversized red gingham handkerchief to dab at all the gore.
    “I just wanted to clear up a matter of semantics,” says I. “
That
was
butting
. I was
anticipating
.”
    Naturally he thanked me.
    He got us in another brace of beers and then explained his situation. Clearly, without pause. Apparently he wanted to engage my services as a private investigator in order that I might track down a briefcase of his that had gone missing and contained certain items which, if they fell into the wrong hands, or even the right ones, might spell doom to this world of ours in any one of at least eleven different languages.
    “There’s something you’re not telling me,” says I.
    He counted on his fingers. “Yes, you’re right,” says he. “
Twelve
different languages, including Esperanto.”
    “Just as I thought.”
    “And so I came to you,” says the guy. “Because I’ve heard you’re the best.”
    “You heard right,” says I. “So, do you want to tell me
exactly
what’s really in this briefcase of yours?”
    The guy gave his head the shake that meant, “No.”
    “Well how’s about telling me the last place you saw it?”
    “Do you know Stravino’s barber’s shop?”
    I pointed to my crowning glory. “What does this tell you?” I asked.
    “It tells me that you asked for a Ramón Navarro.”
    “Precisely, and what did I get?”
    “You got a Tony Curtis.”
     
    The guy and I chewed fat for a while and then he took his leave. I returned to the bar to find Fangio shuffling cards.
    “Pick a card, any card,” says he.
    “Three of spades,” says I.
    “Correct,” says he. “But how did you