Who's There?

Who’s There?

By Herschel Cozine

Copyright 2013 by Herschel Cozine

Cover Copyright 2013 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Also by Herschel Cozine and Untreed Reads Publishing

Delinquency Report

Saint Nicked

The Birds

The Humpty Dumpty Tragedy

The Porridge Incident

The Stranger

“I Yam What I Yam”
(from the anthology
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Second Helping
)

http://www.untreedreads.com

Who’s There?

By Herschel Cozine

As I was walking up the stair

I met a man who wasn’t there.

He wasn’t there again today;

Oh! How I wish he’d go away.

Hi. Nathaniel P. Osgood III here. I have been involved in a lot of strange cases in my career. Missing sheep, cooked birds, murdered robins and pumpkin dwelling wives to name a few. I have learned to take these things in stride. But the man who wasn’t there was weird, even for this place. I never solved the case, but…well, let me tell you about it and you can decide for yourself.

It all started on a miserable Monday morning. Ah, but that’s redundant. Mondays have always been a challenge for me, coming on the heels of a weekend filled with inertia. I would be willing to bet that Isaac Newton formulated his laws of motion on a Monday.

I had just walked into my office, a small, not very tidy room across from the Nurseryland Nursery. Their display of silver bells and cockle shells seemed out of tune with the rest of the environment. I took little pleasure in their presence. I scowled at the pile of paper on my desk, set my cup of lukewarm coffee on the heap, and sat down.

It wasn’t until he spoke that I noticed the gentleman seated in the chair across from me. How he got in I don’t know. But I have learned over the years not to question such events. The answers never address the problem, so why bother?

“Good morning,” he said.

I didn’t challenge the statement, but looked him over before replying. He was a portly man with graying hair and a spreading midsection. He smiled at me and extended his hand. I took it.

“What can I do for you?” I said.

“My name is Griswold MacPhee,” he said. “I would like to engage your services to rid me of a problem that has been plaguing me for a long time.”

“Certainly,” I replied. “I am at your service. At a price, of course.”

He waved a hand. “Money is no object,” he said. “I am well off.”

I shuddered inwardly at the remark. Those who claim that money is no object are the ones to scream the loudest when they see the bill.

“And what exactly is it that you want me to do?” I asked.

Griswold shifted in his chair uneasily, and I could see that he was having difficulty expressing his problem.

“Well, you see,” he started. “It’s rather difficult to explain.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” I said. “That works for me.”

“There is no beginning,” he replied. “In fact, there is nothing at all, and that is what bothers me.”

”I don’t understand,” I said.

“But you must,” he said. He took a deep breath, expelled it and frowned.

“It’s this person,” he said finally. “He is never there.”

“Where?” I asked.

“There. At home. Where I live. He wasn’t there again this morning when I left the house. And it is beginning to get on my nerves. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.”

“I see,” I said, the first of many lies I would tell in this case. I didn’t have an inkling what he was talking about.

“I want this man to go away.”

“Go away? But you told me he wasn’t there. How…”

“Exactly!” Griswold said.

“Exactly
what?”

“He
isn’t
there! That’s the whole point.”

My headache suddenly got worse. I studied Griswold through bleary eyes, but said nothing. This conversation was going nowhere. I could think of nothing to add to it.

Griswold ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed deeply. “He’s driving me crazy. He’s not there all the time. Don’t you see?”

He was becoming visibly upset. I had to do something fast or have a raving maniac to deal with. I decided to humor him. “Of course,” I said. “But just what is it you want me to do?”

“Find him. Talk to him. Make him stop.”

“I see,” I said. “Do you know where he lives?”

“No.”

“What does he look like?’

“I couldn’t tell you,” he said. “I have never seen the man.”

“Well, it’s not a whole lot to go on. Anything you could tell me about him would be helpful.”

“I’ve told you everything I know,” Griswold said. “Will you help? Please?”

Usually I have no problem accepting clients. It’s my job. And clients are few and far between. But this case seemed impossible. MacPhee was bothered by someone who wasn’t there. He had never seen the man and didn’t know what he looked like. I shook my head to clear it.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I…”

“Oh, but you have to,” he said. “You are my last hope. It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Well,” I said, “if you put it that way…”

Before I could say anything more he leaped to his feet. I thought he was going to hug me.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” he cried.

I was trapped! I took the case.

If the little man who wasn’t there had been annoying my client by his absence, I was fairly certain that he had been doing the same with others. I decided the best way to approach this case was to make the rounds around town and start asking questions.

I started with the local bar. Well, I had to start
somewhere
. After all, it was my investigation.

The bartender, a heavyset man with droopy eyelids and a perpetual scowl, snorted when I asked about the little man.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know who you mean. He doesn’t come in here all the time. In fact he wasn’t in here every night last week.”

“Is that so?” I said. “Where can I find him?”

The bartender shrugged. “How should I know? He never talks to me.”

“Well, then, tell me this,” I said. “When was the last time he didn’t not come in?”

The bartender flipped his towel on the counter and frowned. “Dunno. Probably last month. I don’t keep track of those things. He’s not the only guy I gotta worry about.”

“Has he not been in tonight?”

“No,” the bartender said. “But it’s early.”

My head was reeling. It could have been the cheap beer. I thanked the bartender, threw a bill on the counter and left.

I had had enough for one day. It was not going to be easy to get to the bottom of this case. In situations such as this I find ways to keep perspective by finding suitable diversions. I spent the evening watching reruns of
Gilligan’s Island
. OK, so it isn’t exactly brain food. But it doesn’t tax it either.

The next day I visited other merchants in town. The butcher. The baker. The candlestick maker. None of them were of any help to me. They all told the same story about the little man’s not being there. I had to admit he was busy. I don’t know how he could not be in so many places in one day.

“He’s harmless,” the shoemaker said. “I don’t mind him. Tell your client to ignore him.”

“He’s not paying me for advice,” I said. “Can you tell me where I can find this person?”

The shoemaker shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sure. I think he doesn’t live out near the Peter Pan Airport. He doesn’t travel a lot, and must have a ton of frequent non-flyer miles.”

I thanked him and left.

I spent most of the morning driving around the airport, but as you might expect, had no success. After several fruitless hours, I gave up and drove back to town.

For the next two weeks I devoted full time to the case. I placed an ad in the local paper, asking that the little man contact me. Except for a few crank responses I was unsuccessful. Come to think of it, he may have answered the ad. From what I understand of this guy, it would be impossible to tell.

I followed endless leads, none of which panned out. It was worse than a wild goose chase. At least you stand a chance of finding a wild goose. I was chasing moonbeams.

I thought I caught a break one day when a man came into my office and excitedly announced that he knew where the little man was.

“I didn’t meet him on my way to St. Ives,” he said excitedly.

“Are you certain?”

“Of course. How many men who aren’t there do you think there are around here?”

“OK,” I said. “Can you take me to him?”

“Is there a reward?” he asked. “I have seven wives to feed, and God knows how many cats.”

“Maybe,” I said. “We’ll talk about that after you take me to him.”

We were too late. The little man who wasn’t there wasn’t there. None of the wives could tell when he didn’t leave. The cats, of course, were of no help at all.

Those of you who are familiar with Sherlock Holmes will know that he lost a single case in his brilliant career when he was outwitted by Irene Adler. This case was my “Irene.” I was beaten; thoroughly, undeniably beaten. I was devastated.

But I had a client who was expecting a resolution and was paying me well to succeed. I couldn’t let him down. The poor man was at the end of his rope. If I couldn’t find the little man who wasn’t there and convince him to quit not going to my client’s house, I would feel personally responsible for the consequences.

Thus I told another of my many lies.

“Mister MacPhee,” I said, “I have good news.”

Griswold MacPhee looked at me with bright eyes, a trace of a smile on his lips. “Yes? Did you find him?”

“I did,” I said. “And I told him that he was to quit not coming over to your house at all hours of the day and night.”

“Did he agree?”

“Yes,” I said. “He was very apologetic. He had no idea that his absence was causing such distress.”

Griswold sighed and sat down heavily. “What a relief,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank you. This is such a load off my mind.”

I patted him on the shoulder. “I’m glad I could be of help.”

I was hoping that MacPhee would be convinced that he would no longer be bothered. The power of suggestion, I believe it is called. But since I had done nothing to solve the problem, I waived my fee. After all, I
do
have some ethics.

Griswold insisted that I at least accept an invitation to dinner at his expense. I agreed.

“By the way,” he said as he turned to leave. “How did you manage to talk to him if you could never find him?”

“E-mail,” I said.

Griswold MacPhee frowned momentarily, then smiled broadly. “Of course,” he said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

It has been over six months since I “solved” the case, and Griswold seems to be satisfied. In fact he called the other day and invited me to dinner. But I declined. I was afraid we would not run into the little man and this whole mess would start all over again. I couldn’t live with that.