The things I didn't want to know about came to me a whole hell of a lot more sudden than they possibly could have had I been more prepared to receive things like this, in any such order but that which did come to me. The divorce papers arrived first thing in the morning. Someone had pressed the bell at the door to the room and when I answered it, a man stood there wearing a grim smile that stepped out from his face just as far as his extended hand and the base of the outstretched envelope.
Then the fire department telephoned at the main desk to leave a message for me that the house was not salvageable, and that my life would thus consist of the clothes on my back and the divorce papers in my hand. When I strode down to the front desk to return the call to the fire department to find out why they were so sure of my impending divorce (for instance, how were they to know that things could not suddenly be patched up at the last moment?), the Chief of Fires could not be reached, and the receptionist at the firehouse would only say, "You'll have to call back later."
After a late lunch that arrived to the room in a frayed, unintelligible condition on account of having been first taken to by a dog they'd mistakenly let loose in the hotel kitchen -- and then picked up after the hound's eventual exit and re-assembled on the plate and served to me -- I received a telegram from a detective from the Precinct informing me of the box found in a recent victim's closet.
"It sounds like an inside job," the telegram said. "In fact, all clues lead tentatively to you. As yet there are no clues . . . but you know what I mean."
After that, the telegram informed me that the detective would be out of town until the following morning, and would I please arrive at the house to continue the investigation myself in lieu of his absence?
So I obtained a badge and a suit from the Precinct Office and headed to the detective's mentioned victim's house. The traffic outside was remarkably slow, and I felt defeated almost post-haste.
Then the fire department telephoned at the main desk to leave a message for me that the house was not salvageable, and that my life would thus consist of the clothes on my back and the divorce papers in my hand. When I strode down to the front desk to return the call to the fire department to find out why they were so sure of my impending divorce (for instance, how were they to know that things could not suddenly be patched up at the last moment?), the Chief of Fires could not be reached, and the receptionist at the firehouse would only say, "You'll have to call back later."
After a late lunch that arrived to the room in a frayed, unintelligible condition on account of having been first taken to by a dog they'd mistakenly let loose in the hotel kitchen -- and then picked up after the hound's eventual exit and re-assembled on the plate and served to me -- I received a telegram from a detective from the Precinct informing me of the box found in a recent victim's closet.
"It sounds like an inside job," the telegram said. "In fact, all clues lead tentatively to you. As yet there are no clues . . . but you know what I mean."
After that, the telegram informed me that the detective would be out of town until the following morning, and would I please arrive at the house to continue the investigation myself in lieu of his absence?
So I obtained a badge and a suit from the Precinct Office and headed to the detective's mentioned victim's house. The traffic outside was remarkably slow, and I felt defeated almost post-haste.
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