A Glimpse of Heaven

by Olivier Bosman

  “That’s not a lot to go on, Mr Billings. A lot of people have dogs.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m trying to think if there’s anything else I remember.”

  “What class of man was he?”

  “What do you mean what class of man?”

  “Upper class? Middle class?”

  “By the way he spoke, I’d say upper middle class.”

  “Do you want me to go to Luton for you?”

  “And do what?”

  Trotter shrugged. “I don’t know. Look around for young men with dogs called Bessie.”

  “That’s an impossible task.”

  “Luton’s not that big. I just need to wander around an upper middle class neighbourhood, and with a little luck I’ll bump into a young man with a beagle.” Trotter got up and headed for the hat-stand. “I’ll be back this afternoon.”

  “You’re not really going, are you?”

  “Why not? I’d rather be active than sit here and do nothing.” He put on his coat and hat and headed for the door.

  “Wait.”

  Trotter stopped and turned around. “What?”

  Billings hesitated. “No posy today?”

  Trotter looked down at his lapel. “The bluebells are all bloomed out, Mr Billings. Anyway, I didn’t think wearing flowers was suitable for a detective.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Well, in that case I’ll be sure to pick some fresh ones tomorrow.”

  Billings smiled. “You’re a good man, Trotter.”

  Trotter’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Mr Billings.”

  “Have you been back to see Strongman George?”

  Trotter blushed. “No. Not recently.”

  “I’ll come with you next time if you want.”

  Trotter looked surprised. “I thought you didn’t like the music hall.”

  “I don’t. But I don’t like the idea of you going on your own.”

  “But I don’t mind going on my own.”

  “Well, you should mind. Don’t waste away your youth, Trotter. Don’t shut the door on that part of your life.”

  “I’m not shutting any doors.”

  “You said you wanted to remain single and carefree.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, that’s nonsense! Nobody wants that.”

  “I do.”

  “I know this tactic of yours. I used it myself when I was young.”

  “What tactic?”

  “You and I are of the same species, Trotter.”

  “Same species? What are you talking about, Mr Billings?”

  “Think about it when you’re wandering around Luton.”

  “You’re in a strange mood today, Mr Billings.”

  “Well, off you go then. Good luck in Luton.”

  Still looking confused, Trotter nodded and left.

  Twenty minutes later, Clarkson knocked on the door.

  “What are you doing here?” Billings asked as he opened the door.

  “I’ve got something for you.” Clarkson walked in and slammed some papers on Billings’ desk. “Angel Puck. That’s the name of the man whose dismembered body we fished out of the river. I spoke to his father yesterday. Tragic tale. You should read it.”

  Billings picked up the report and leafed through it.

  “But not now.” Clarkson pulled the report away. “Right now, we’re going to Chelsea. You can read it on the way.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to pay a visit to a certain Mr Alick Lourie. I think I may have found our suspect, Billings.” He grabbed his companion’s arm and dragged him towards the door.

  “Listen, Clarkson, about last night.” Billings followed Clarkson out of the apartment and down the stairs. “I meant to talk to you yesterday, but you came back home late.”

  “That’s because I was interviewing Silas Puck, the victim’s father, and then I had to write a report. You know how long that always takes me.”

  “Well, I just wanted to apologize to you.”

  “Apology accepted. Now, cram all this into your head as we walk towards the bus stop.” He pushed the report back into Billings’ hands. “I do hope we find the little bugger. Sounds like a nasty piece of work.”

  STATEMENT TAKEN FROM Silas Puck, May 25, 1895

  Our Angel always were a big lad. He were five foot two at the age of ten. Big and robust and bullish looking. And he could be a bit brusque. He’d get carried away sometimes and slap the other boys on the back or punch them in the arm. It were meant to be a friendly gesture, but coming from a boy that size, well... the other boys were scared of him. That’s why he never had any friends. He were a lonely boy.

  Angel met Lourie in Cambridge. I work as a caretaker in one of the colleges, and I got him a job as a porter. They became friends. Although ‘friend’ is probably not the right word for it. How can a posh college student and a porter ever be called friends? But Lourie took a shine to Angel. He always gave him good tips – and he weren’t like that with everyone. He’d single Angel out for his generosity. Sometimes he’d give Angel a whole sovereign! And he’d often buy him things too. Like shoes. Angel never could find shoes to fit those big feet of his. Lourie paid for special shoes to be made for him.

  He were good to Angel, Lourie was, but he could be rude too. Liked calling him a fat toad or porky swine. He’d call him that in front of everyone, even in front of me. He’d shout it at him over the quadrangle as I were mowing the lawn. But Angel said he didn’t mind. He thought of it as banter. And if he didn’t mind, then why should I?

  But I did mind. You see, Lourie had a bad reputation at the college. He were a very contrary lad. He were always in trouble with the faculty, and people spoke badly about him. Not just the teachers, but the students as well. Said he were un-Christian. Said he worshiped demons and devils and such. Cambridge is a small town, and you’ve got to be careful who you associate with, especially if you work in a college. College jobs ain’t easy to get hold of. I worried about Angel’s friendship with Lourie. And it turned out that I had good cause to.

  Lourie became embroiled in a scandal which got him expelled. He’d been sneaking prostitutes into the dormitories at the weekends. It all came to light when he got diagnosed with syphilis. When the principal asked him how he got it, he just told him, freely and unashamedly. “I got it from a bonny trollop with big thighs,” he said. And when the principal asked him how he’d managed to smuggle the prostitute into the campus, he told him that my Angel had helped him.

  Well, Angel denied it at first, but I knew he was lying. I knew that a man like Lourie would not spend money on someone like Angel without expecting something in return. So, I gave Angel such a belting that he were forced to confess.

  Well, that was that. As soon as I got the confession, I marched straight into the principal’s office and urged him to sack my son. I wanted nothing more to do with that boy, I said. He was an embarrassment to me, I said. I wanted him out of my life for good. I had to tell him that. I had no choice. He’d have kicked me out too if I hadn’t, and jobs ain’t easy to come by for people my age.

  But of course I didn’t mean any of it. I knew that Lourie had just taken advantage of a vulnerable boy. And I told Angel that too. I told him that I had to make a show of renouncing him, just to save my own skin. He were still my boy, and I would still support him. So, I gave him some money and sent him away to live with my sister.

  I didn’t expect him to stay in touch with Lourie, but he did. My sister came to visit me at the college one day, looking tense and worried. “He’s gone!” she said. “Our Angel. He’s gone.” After being kicked out of university, Lourie went off to the Americas and invited Angel to come along with him as his valet and companion. Well, I didn’t know what to make of that at first. On the one hand, being a valet is a good job. But on the other hand, Alick Lourie was bad news.

  Angel sent me a letter from Mexico. Said he were happy, and that Lourie were good to him. A few months later, I got
a letter from France. He was joining Lourie on a desert expedition in Africa! He were having a great time, I thought. Our Angel. Happy at last.

  I never heard from him again after that letter. I thought he were still travelling the world, when my sister showed me the newspaper with a picture of his bloated, dead face on it.

  “WHY ARE YOU SO CONVINCED that this is our man?” Billings asked as they climbed the steps of the smart Chelsea building.

  “He’s the last person to see Angel Puck alive,” Clarkson said. “And according to Silas Puck, he dabbled in the occult.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “But it’s a strong lead, Billings. You must admit that. Anyway, my instinct tells me that this is the one. You’ve got instincts, ain’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what do your instincts tell you?”

  Billings thought about this. “Maybe.”

  They reached the top landing and stopped at Lourie’s door. Clarkson knocked. They waited. No answer.

  Clarkson put his ear to the door and listened. “There’s someone there. I can hear shuffling.” He knocked again. “Mr Lourie, open up. I need to talk to you.”

  A man’s voice responded from inside. “Who is it?”

  “It’s the police. We want to talk to you about Angel Puck.”

  “Angel Puck is dead.”

  “Could you open up, please?”

  The door creaked open. Alick Lourie peered at them through the crack. He looked tired. His thick hair was uncombed, his eyes bloated, his face unshaven. “What do you want?”

  “May we come in?”

  “My apartment’s a mess.”

  “Let us in, please, Mr Lourie.”

  Lourie reluctantly opened the door. The two detectives looked into the apartment. The place was indeed a mess. A dank smell lingered in the hallway. A layer of dust covered the furniture. Shoes and clothes littered the floor. A mouldy, browned apple core lay discarded in the corner.

  “Well? Are you coming in?” Lourie’s speech was slurred. He wore a dirty silk dressing gown over a bare torso, and he was barefoot. “Follow me.” He led the detectives to the living room. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I think I drank it all.” Empty wine and liquor bottles littered the room. Billings noticed a smoking incense burner in the corner. A bittersweet odour wafted from it. “So, what is it you want?”

  “My name is Detective Sergeant Clarkson. I’m investigating the death of Angel Puck.”

  Lourie looked the detective up and down. “Oh, that’s you, is it? I read about you in the papers.”

  “How do you know Mr Puck?”

  “Angel was my man.”

  “Your man?”

  “My manservant. My valet.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “I haven’t seen him since I kicked him out a few weeks ago.”

  “Kicked him out?”

  “Why do you think this place is such a mess? I haven’t found anyone to replace him yet.”

  “Why did you kick him out?”

  “I grew tired of having to look at that ugly face of his. Perhaps I should’ve waited until I had a replacement, but he was just too uncouth. Do you have a manservant, Detective Sergeant... um...?”

  “Clarkson. No, I don’t.”

  “Well, the general rule of thumb is that you should always get one that is uglier than you. It’ll make your own good looks stand out more. But in the case of Angel Puck, I think I overdid it. That boy really was too beastly to look at!”

  Billings looked around the room. His eyes fell on the clay sculpture of a nude young man on the coffee table.

  Lourie caught him looking. “Careful with that.”

  Billings looked at him. “What is it?”

  “It’s meant to be Adam. Before Eve. When he was still young and free and full of wonder. Before that nagging bitch got him to disobey his lord. Made it myself.” Lourie’s eyes were drawn to the detective’s bandaged hand. “What happened to you?”

  “Somebody cut off my finger.”

  Lourie went quiet. His face tensed. “Your finger?” He straightened up and cleared his throat. “Well... I’m not sure I can be of any more help to you gentlemen.” The change in his tone was striking. Gone was the cockiness and flippancy he’d displayed earlier. He seemed nervous now. He gestured towards the door. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get dressed now.”

  “When was the last time you saw Angel Puck?” Clarkson asked.

  “I told you. A few weeks ago.”

  “Where did Puck go when he left your home?”

  “Back to his parents, I suppose. They live in Cambridge.”

  “His parents haven’t seen him since he left with you for the Americas.”

  Lourie looked surprised. “You spoke to them?”

  “What where you doing in America?”

  “I visited New Orleans. And Mexico.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I...um... I have an interest in tribal religions and rituals. I studied voodoo in New Orleans, and I spent a few weeks with the Huichol people in Durango.”

  “And after that, I believe you went to Africa.”

  “We went trekking through the desert in Algeria.”

  “Why?”

  “It was a spiritual retreat.”

  “You are interested in spiritualism?”

  “Yes.”

  “You worship demons and devils, I believe?”

  Lourie frowned. “Who told you that?”

  “That’s what they say about you in your former college.”

  “Rubbish! I’m interested in world religions, that’s all.”

  Billings picked up the sculpture and turned it around in his hands.

  Lourie looked at him and frowned. “Um... sir, if you don’t mind, put that down, please. It’s fragile.”

  Billings ignored him. He looked at its back. There was a hole in it. “What’s this cavity for?”

  “That’s... uh... ventilation.”

  “Ventilation?”

  “To make it dry faster. And less heavy. Now, please put it down.”

  Billings looked into the hole. “There’s something in it.” He began shaking the sculpture.

  Lourie looked alarmed. “Sir, please!”

  Something rolled out of the hole and fell onto the floor – a small, blackened object. Billings rolled it around with the tip of his shoe. It was a severed finger, the dirt still visible under the fingernail.

  Shocked, Billings dropped the sculpture. It shattered into four pieces.

  “What is it?” Clarkson asked.

  “A finger!” Billings cried. “My finger!” He looked at Lourie.

  Lourie looked back. “A finger?” His look of astonishment was comical and unconvincing. “How did that get in there?”

  Clarkson took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. “Mr Lourie, you’re under arrest. Please accompany us to the police station.”

  Lourie staggered backwards towards the window. “You’ll have to catch me first, Detective Sergeant. And I’m not easy to catch. I can do magic, you know. I can become invisible. Or I could fly out of this window.”

  “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” Clarkson approached him slowly. “There’s nowhere for you to go.” He turned towards his colleague. “Billings, block the doorway.”

  Billings blocked the exit to the corridor.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” Lourie climbed onto the windowsill and opened the window. “But I can fly. I’ve done it before.”

  Clarkson stopped. “Mr Lourie, don’t do anything foolish.”

  “It’s not foolish. It’s magic. I’m a seventh-degree magician. I can do a lot of things.”

  “We’re on the sixth floor. You jump out of that window, you’ll break your neck.”

  “Not me, Mr Clarkson. I tell you, I can do magic.” He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and started mumbling an incantation.

  Billings and Cla
rkson looked at each other.

  “Come on, Mr Lourie,” Clarkson said. “Stop this tomfoolery. Just get down off the windowsill. I’ll put the handcuffs away if you accompany us peacefully.”

  Lourie continued to recite his incantations, his eyelids tightly shut.

  Clarkson edged slowly towards him. “Mr Lourie, come on. You don’t really want to jump, do you?” Suddenly he lunged forward and tried to grab Lourie’s arm, but he was too late. Lourie leaned sideways and tumbled out of the window.

  Billings rushed to join his companion at the window. They watched Lourie fall, his open dressing gown billowing in the wind. He fell six storeys into the canopy of the restaurant on the ground floor, which broke his fall. Lourie rolled off the canopy and onto the pavement and, without looking back, limped away on bare feet.

  “Damn it!” cried Clarkson. “We’ve lost him!”

  Billings rushed to the front door.

  “Where are you going?” Clarkson cried.

  “To chase after him.”

  “There’s no point, Billings. He’s gone. By the time you’re downstairs, he’ll have slipped into some side street and got lost in the mazes of Chelsea. Help me search the room instead.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know. Anything that’s incriminating.”

  “He’s got my finger in his sculpture. I think that’s incriminating enough!”

  “How do you know it’s your finger?”

  Billings didn’t know how to answer that. He looked around the room. His eyes fell on the bookcase. He went towards it and pulled out a small notebook with lined pages. On the dark brown cardboard cover was written: Diary of the Beast. He was flicking through the pages when he suddenly heard the front door open.

  Billings and Clarkson looked towards the door. A brown and white beagle came wandering into the living room, wagging its tail.

  “Alick, are you home?” a voice called.

  A young man appeared in the doorway. He jumped upon seeing the two detectives.

  “Who are you? What are you doing in my apartment?”

  “This is your apartment?” Billings asked.

  “I share it with Mr Lourie. Where is he? Alick? Are you in there? What’s going on?”