Seated at his desk, coffee in hand, Ulrich glanced occasionally at his phone, wondering if a potential client might call. Invariably, when none did, he'd return to the day's crossword puzzle. He'd gotten more than half-way through it since lunch, but had now hit a wall.
Outside, he heard the door to the stairs slam, and moments later there was a rap at his door.
“Come in,” said the detective.
Mr. Harden, one hand in the pocket of his corduroy jacket, entered the room and delivered his usual, “Mr. Ulrich, how goes it?” Looking about the office, he continued. “My, this really is coming together nicely, isn't it? You've made it your own!”
Since Harden's last visit, Ulrich had only managed to foist off three buckets of cleaning solution onto Percy, the janitor. The rest of the junk in the room remained. Some of it had been rearranged, some of it had been splotched with drippings from the meals he ate at his desk, but the tiny room still looked like a hoarder's closet.
“Thanks,” said the detective, reaching into his wallet and picking out a white envelope filled with bills. “You're here about the rent, yes? This should cover it.” He held out the envelope and then sat back down on his stool.
Harden snatched up the envelope and snuck a fat finger into the seam. “This accounts for the increase due to the air conditioning, I take it?” Catching Ulrich's nod—and annoyance—Harden presented a wide smile, showcasing those tiny Chiclet teeth, and then tucked the money into his back pocket. “I thank you heartily, Mr. Ulrich. If only my other renters were as on-the-ball as you are!”
Ulrich nodded, put on the requisite grin and waited for the building owner to leave.
Unfortunately, he didn't.
There remained yet another hurdle to jump in Harden's visit, and both of them shared the unspoken understanding it hadn't been cleared yet.
From his wallet, Harden removed a single photograph. He slid it across the detective's desk and then waited for a reaction, hands on his hips. “It's my daughter,” he said, as if Ulrich wasn't already aware of what he was looking at. “She's joined the university soccer team.”
Clearing his throat, Ulrich picked up the picture and gave it a once-over. “My...” was all he could manage.
If it was possible, young Iris Harden had only gotten homelier since the building owner had last come by. Being exposed to these dreadful pictures, one got the impression that the girl—whether posed with musical instruments or attempting to keep one enormous foot balanced atop a soccer ball—was some kind of mean-spirited put-on.
She was a photocopy of Harden himself. Truly, the resemblance between father and daughter was uncanny. To Ulrich's knowledge, no one in the building who had to suffer through these pictures had actually seen this daughter in the flesh, and over time this had led to the circulation of certain conspiracy theories around the Otterbein building: Chiefly, that these pictures were merely a perverse ruse—photos of Harden in drag.
“She's the team goalie,” beamed Harden.
“Delightful.” Ulrich handed the photo back to the man, barely masking his queasiness.
“Well, I've got some errands to run. I sure hope this rain lets up soon,” said the building owner, turning to leave. “Best of luck on your cases, Mr. Ulrich!”
“Thanks.” Ulrich watched Harden exit and then let out a sigh as the door closed behind his corduroy-wrapped bulk. Free now to focus on his crossword, he banished visions of Iris Harden from his mind and tried to crack those few remaining blanks.
It wasn't long before another disruption halted his progress. The stairway door opened and another knock graced his door.
“Yes?” called Ulrich.
Opening the door slowly, Emma, from downstairs, peeked around the corner. “Hey, Mr. Ulrich. How are you?”
“Oh, it's you.” Ulrich grinned at her. “I thought it was Harden again, coming by to show me more pictures of his daughter.”
Emma winced a little for the remembrance and then stepped fully into the room. “Everything going OK? I, uh... I noticed the other day, after I helped you out with that social media thing... You were looking up that woman—Gloria. You know, I saw her on the news yesterday.” She sported a knowing smile and smoothed out her bob. “You were the one who cracked that murder case, right?”
He couldn't contain himself. “You never know. I just might have been!”
Emma stuck her hands in her pockets, roaming near the entry. “That's so cool! And dangerous! You've gotta be careful with things like that, Mr. Ulrich. You could have gotten hurt—or worse!”
You don't know how close I came to buying the farm, he thought. “It's all in a day's work,” he boasted, taking a pull from his thermos. “Anyhow, what brings you up here?”
“Oh, right.” Emma motioned out into the hall. “I was just in the stairwell, taking a break, and I met someone there—they said they were looking for you. Wanted to hire you, maybe?” She stepped back through the doorway. “I told them I'd check to see if you were here. Should I send them in?”
“Ah...” He glanced down at the unfinished crossword. Sitting upright, he found his back and neck acting up, and he took a few moments in adjusting them. “Sure, send them in. Thanks.”
Emma turned and returned to the stairs.
Nursing his coffee, Ulrich sighed into the thermos and sent a cloud of warm steam across his face. He'd been watching his phone all day, waiting for a potential client to call, but not because he was in a hurry to start the next job. It'd been a mere curiosity—a voicemail to collect and listen to when the urge to work finally struck him. The detective had been hoping for at least a few days' rest after this latest mess and now it looked like he wasn't going to get it.
Perhaps it was just as well. Before he knew it, the rent was going to be due again. Better to get a jump on some work than to wait until his accounts were empty. He put the crossword away for later; he'd try and solve it again after dinner with the cat. Beardsley had a knack for such puzzles. He peered through his open doorway just in time to spy this new, prospective client, a woman, exiting the stairwell.
The first thing he noticed about her, aside from the clacking of her heels and tight-fitting dress, was what she held in her hands.
A red umbrella, still dripping with rain.
Lowering the thing, the woman—a young blonde—offered a smile. She closed the umbrella and propped it up against the wall. “You're Mr. Ulrich, I presume? The private eye? Boy, I tell you, this is some rain we're having, isn't it?”
His heart had skipped a beat at glimpsing that red umbrella. Now, standing to greet the woman, he donned an embarrassed smile. “It sure is.”
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Once upon a time, a young Ambrose Ibsen discovered a collection of ghost stories on his father's bookshelf. He was never the same again.
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