When Civil Servants Fail

by John Schou

happy that the cleaning and harbour dues are saved.”

  “And with which money shall I pay all the expenses?”

  “With the money you already received in advance from Germany. That may also be needed to pay my salary.”

  “You are well-informed, Mr. Smith. Perhaps you also know where the toxic waste was produced?”

  “Of course. Otherwise, I could not negotiate the deal with the French.”

  “But the waste came from Germany?”

  “Yes, that is where it came from. I mean, where your ship loaded it and from where you were paid. By the way, I should inform you that the second rate will not be paid since not even half of the travel was carried out.”

  “Sounds even logical. I had expected so.”

  And so it came. I bet that Mr. Smith blackmailed the foreign industrials for cleaning the toxic waste, earning more money on keeping silent about the crime he had uncovered. The crew dispersed to other ships, except captain Caspersen who stopped sailing; he was fined a small sum, to be replaced by Mr. Smith, for improper handling of the so-called occupational accident, but therefore, Heinz Koller’s parents at least received a proper damage (they had preferred getting their son back). The load of depleted Uranium was later sailed to Russia on the ship where they were loaded, the ship which was once called ‘Frozen Gulf’, the only ship which ever saw me among its crew and the ship sailing with radioactive loads between France and Russia today – if the Danes only knew ... When Fred turned up that day, everything was fixed and our guests had gone. I tried to exert a prolongation of his work, so that I could make a small holiday – with solid ground under the feet, of course, but Mr. Smith decided that what I really needed was what he considered a proper diet.

  Dark Shadows

  1 – Endangered Species

  It is a good job I have got as Mr. Smith’s secretary et cetera. Among the several activities hidden under ‘et cetera’ are to be his running counterpart, go shopping after certain items about which I have absolutely no idea but, exactly therefore, receive precise instructions, which I have learned never to compromise, drive his old Bentley (but mostly without Mr. Smith) and represent ‘Theodore Smith Consulting’ at occasional parties. Mr. Smith actually is a detective, the best in Northern Europe, but since detectives are not ‘in’ in Denmark where we live, he calls himself a consultant. And I am his well-paid assistant. Since hard crimes, such as murder, are extremely rare in Denmark – at least among Mr. Smith’s well-paying clients – it was not really a dangerous job and I rarely carried my handgun on detection missions, although I am entitled to do so. That is the positive side of my job.

  The negative one is Mr. Smith himself. He is the man most endangered to be a murder victim and I am the potential killer. This extremely fat man thinks that because he pays me well, he can treat me otherwise lousy. He is extremely arrogant and wants to be admired for his intellectual capacities, for which reason he shares most of his meals with me – but that does not mean that we eat the same: I do not want to look like him and am very cautious with what I eat while he is cautious to get enough to maintain his extraordinary dimensions. Only in one case do I join him with pleasure: the visit Wednesday by René, a professional cook of considerable fame, who creates a gastronomical adventure in the house in Hellerup. Then we have an excellent wine for dinner, meaning one glass for me and the rest for him – it is only fair so as judged by the relative weight, besides I have no money to spend for such excellent wines. He has even tried to teach me something about these fine wines, but gave it up, and now he only lets me participate because he has learnt not to empty a whole bottle himself, since that is bad for his gout. On these occasions, Juanita is on leave. Not that Juanita should be a bad cook, no, certainly not, but once a week, Mr. Smith has decided to have something extravagantly. This is where she cannot compete. Instead, she regularly complains about the trouble she has to find things and clean up after strangers have used her kitchen.

  Juanita, his Spanish householder, is otherwise in the house most of the time. She only uses my presence to go out in the middle of the day to buy what she finds necessary in the household. She tolerates no intrusion on that matter and I admire how she talks to Mr. Smith when he tries to express a certain demand. I do not quite understand what she says, it is in Spanish, but the tone is unmistaken. Juanita does not speak Danish or English well and that is probably one of the reasons that Mr. Smith employed her, simply to boast of his linguistic knowledge. Even without such, I swear that I hear a strong English accent in his oral exercise. I learned perhaps forty words, enough for my daily communication with Juanita, and they certainly sound more Spanish than what comes out of our mutual employer’s mouth.

  Mr. Smith is Irish; at least, he says so. He came to Denmark 15 years ago, already then an invalid. I have been with him for almost four years. He is a master of deduction but I suspect that he has some dark periods in the past; sometimes, his conclusions, though later proven correct, can hardly be made in a normal person’s brain but demands some criminal experience, to say it mildly. For now, he uses his brain for compensating his lack of physical capacity, and he has managed to settle a brilliant compromise. That his past may cast dark shadows were probably the reason for the case, I am about to refer.

  When I drive Mr. Smith’s car, it is not only because I love to take the old Bentley Cornice out but because I have convinced the owner that it needs movement. Outside Hellerup where we live, a Northern suburb to Copenhagen, people rarely see such luxurious cars, and it is a proud feeling to lead a girlfriend out in a sea of envying people. For that purpose, however, I must invent some reason for driving somewhere out of Copenhagen, where it is generally impossible to park the limousine. I only drive for Mr. Smith a couple of times a year, and that is when his life is in utmost danger. He must feel it, since he is screaming most of the time, “Take care” of this or that, “Not so fast!” “The light is turning red in a second,” and so on. I never carry a gun when I am playing his driver, because I fear that I may someday simply shoot him. For most missions, I anyhow walk, take a train or a taxi.

  I do not live in Hellerup. That would be too much Smith to me. I live alone in a flat, two kilometres away in a part of Copenhagen called Østerbro. I have no car since I do not need any. You can drive a lot of taxi when you haven’t got to pay for a car, and there is never the problem with parking places and alcohol consumption when you do. But I save even that kind of expenses, when I would have to pay it myself; I can call a bike my own but hardly uses it. To the work I am jogging, regardless of the weather – no, there are conditions where I prefer to take the bus. In Mr. Smith’s residence, I also have a small one-room apartment where I can have a shower and change clothes in a good time to start working at 8.30 a.m. Half an hour later, Mr. Smith comes down the elevator – he is confined to a wheelchair – to have his first and my second breakfast. Most of the time, my work consists of this half hour before, where I look through the mail, and one hour after breakfast began, I tell him about it. I keep him company for another hour afterwards and from 3 p.m. till 9 p.m., a long time but you cannot really call it work. It includes free meals – excellent meals, as I told you – and never ending coffee breaks, so I am getting worried over my own dietary condition, always having the bad example so close to me. I am free Saturday afternoon and Sunday and have four weeks vacation a year, for which I must, however, pose a suitable replacement. For that I generally use Fred – Frederik Nielsen, whose nickname, ‘Skin and Bones,’ arose from the impression his many wrinkles left when he, being completely bald and very slim, took off his coat, jacket and cap – or Ivan Petrov, a Russian descendant born in Denmark but still clinging to his Slavonic origin.

  Last week, we almost had a case from Germany. Mr. Smith is a rare detective, and his deductive capabilities have raised international attention. An obviously very rich would-be client arrived and wanted a murder case solved, in which a distant young relative had been killed.

  “Was he expected to inheri
t a fortune,” Mr. Smith wanted to know.

  “No, certainly not, he was not my heir and he lived rather simple,” Mr. von Braun answered. “But I promised his mother …”

  “And you said that he was killed on a dark street and his valet was stolen,” my boss interrupted. Mr. von Braun nodded.

  “Then I regret. The vast majority of homicides – at least, sudden deaths that are recognized as such – are the result of a rather spontaneous action in primitive surroundings. Unlike the crimes of the literature, there is hardly a basis for deduction. In such cases, the police have much better chances of success than a detective like me, with no local knowledge. It would be a waste of your money and my time to analyze this case any further. Thanks anyhow for considering me. I wish you a pleasant day.”

  Having already wasted some of his own time, not to speak of the expenses arising from his travel from Germany, Mr. von Brown could not accept that his audience had already finished.

  “Very well, but I warned you. Mr. Gusto will take the information needed for a report and later travel to Germany on your expenses.”

  “But I wanted your services,” Mr. von Braun insisted.

  “I never leave my house,” Mr. Smith said, almost in accordance with the truth. “My assistants are my protected eyes and ears, but the analysis is made in this very room. Would you mind follow Mr. Gusto to his bureau? I have other work to do here in the meantime.” With ‘work,’ Mr. Smith was referring to an analysis for a new interpretation of Verdi’s ‘Don Carlos’ which he was criticizing for a music magazine.

  Fortunately for Mr. Smith, Mr. von Braun and I were interrupted during the following interview by the information that the murderer was arrested and had confessed. He left the house, after giving a considerable sum in cash, wishing no recipe. I kept half and gave the rest to Mr. Smith, still more than enough for two hours occupation. But having had a rather impressive income this year and being relieved not to invest any brain activity on this unpromising case, he also gave me the rest.

  Having got accustomed to Mr. Smith’s strongly guarded timetable, this Monday morning was almost a shock to me. It started with the impression, Juanita gave.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, but since my Spanish knowledge is very limited, I did not understand the reply she murmured, except sort of a relief that she would get away this afternoon.

  The mail included a letter, sent to Mr. Smith ‘in person’ and which I therefore left unopened. There was something strange about it: No stamps and a key inside, as I saw when holding it against the lamp. Moreover, the single letters were placed haphazardly, as were they laboriously cut out of a magazine, thereafter copied and the result cut out and glued to the envelope. I was immediately convinced that there were no saliva for DNA analysis and no fingerprints adapted to this letter. At 9:00, I went to the kitchen and immediately thereafter, I heard the elevator coming down. That was the only thing that went according to schedule that day.

  On the first glance, Mr. Smith did not look any different. Quite unusually, however, he started to excuse himself to Juanita for something he had said yesterday. I have never heard him excuse him before but heard and personally felt ample occasions to do so. That was, however, not included in this ‘mea culpa,’ these bills were still open.

  “I’m not hungry,” he then said. Also a novelty to me. Mr. Smith was always hungry. “Eric, can you eat my bacon and eggs?”

  I wanted to decline the offer but then looked at Juanita