When a body meets a body
Title: When a body meets a body
Characters: So far, we have Psmith and Dick and Marlowe and Lulu, but anyone is welcome to join the madness if they can find a way.
Setting: Dick Foley's room in the Aternaville hotel
Privacy: Semi-public, I suppose
Rated: ?
It was a sunny afternoon, and Psmith had managed to wait Marlowe out at last: he had gone for lunch first. It was, the young man reflected sadly, highly unlikely that his return was going to bring enough for both of them, but it was at least a step along that path. He made this observation aloud to the kitten, who was really getting frightfully large at an alarming pace; he made that observation aloud, as well, and the orange tabby gave a sniff as if she understood him quite well and didn't think much of his opinion, thank you, sir.
The telephone rang - not terribly unusual; they'd had a few little things to do here and there, to keep the filing cabinets full of liquor - and Psmith answered it with a nice, professional-sounding "Philip Marlowe Investigations, how may I assist you?"
"Phil? Dick," the caller barked peremptorily. "Surprise for you. Room 312. Snap."
"Terribly sorry, but I'm - " Psmith began, but the caller had hung up before he'd gotten more than a syllable and a half in. " - not Marlowe," he finished rather lamely, then rounded to address the cat. "Clarinet Marmalade, I am sick and tired of being mistaken for that man. The last time it happened I got knocked over the head and carried about in a carpet, which is simply adding injury to insult. This sort of thing would be less likely to happen if he'd just let me put my name on the door, you know. But at any rate, that call was unmistakably from Comrade Foley, and I dare say I'm safe from head-knocks in that department, if only because the little chap'd need a step-ladder and I could simply walk away whilst he was setting it up." He heaved a great put-upon sigh. "I hope it's something interesting." He scribbled a note on a bit of scrap, affixed it to the back of Marlowe's chair so that he couldn't miss it, took up his hat and stick and left for the hotel.
Foley was not particularly pleased when he opened the door and found the tall, talkative Englishman rather than the fellow he'd expected. "You?"
"Marlowe wasn't in, as I attempted to inform you," said Psmith airily, removing his hat. "I oughtn't have needed to tell you at all, of course. Marlowe doesn't pronounce "Marlowe" "Mahlowe," but "Marlowe," and so you really should have twigged it directly I answered and said the name aloud. There's really no wonder your little agency sent you on a six-month leave: not much of a detective if you can't detect an accent, what?"
The little Canadian just looked annoyed.
"Now you may be wondering why I trotted along, and the answer is that I had nothing better to do and I made the assumption that you were calling on something business-related - therefore within my scope as the confidential secretary and/or junior partner. If it were, in fact, meant as a social call, I of course apologize, but I must also inform you in that case that you've got a bit of rather stiff competition in the form of a Montréalais police officer what has a crush on Marlowe's car - I think our dear boy's a bit smitten, if I may make the intimation."
Annoyance had progressed to irascibility on Dick's sharp-featured face, but after weighing his options for a moment, he stepped out of the doorway, jerked his chin toward the other door in the room, then led the way over. "Stiff in tub. Found noon-thirty. Up ten, shower, lunch out, back, boom." The last word was accompanied by a sharp push on the door and a gesture towards the bathtub. Psmith peered in interestedly.
There was, in fact, a stiff in the tub. It had once been a rather fat man in early middle age with an impressive moustachio under an equally impressive nose, clad in blue denim overalls and a red workshirt and hat. "I say," said Psmith, pulling out his monocle, "is it anyone you know?"
Foley simply shook his head.
"I suppose if it had been, you would scarcely have needed to call us about it." Psmith stepped closer and prodded the prone form with the end of his whangee in exactly the same manner as he had once prodded the prone forms of fellow Drones who had overindulged in drink and needed to be roused out before breakfast could be had. This prone form reacted identically to its predecessors, in that it failed to react at all - a very reassuring thing, when one thinks about it. "Whatever did you want it for? Rather macabre thing to collect, I should say. All sorts of trouble keeping it in a nice displayable condition, to say nothing of the amount of storage space required. No, no, there's definitely a reason that one generally is found to be looking to remove a corpse, not obtain it. You've gone and done it backwards, my dear Comrade Foley."
That put-upon audience of one merely rolled his eyes.
"Terribly considerate of him, though, wasn't it?"
This got a reaction. "Considerate? Hell. My tub! Can't take shower!"
"But think," Psmith said fervently, "of all the mess he failed to make, by depositing himself so conveniently within a wash-tub! And for what a noble cause he gave his life, as well." He placed his hat solemnly over his heart and spoke with deep-felt admiration and appreciation. "Why, I'd been growing bored."
They paused for a moment as Psmith made a show of exhibiting respect for the dead. Then he prodded the corpse once again. "I suppose I really should let Marlowe come and see. It would be terribly mean of me not to share the fun." He pulled his mobile from an inner jacket pocket. "Marlowe, are you on your way back to the office? Oh, I say, do stop by the hotel, won't you? We've got a dead chap in a tub up here, and it's dreadfully diverting, I'd hate for you to miss it."
He hummed "when a body meets a body coming through the rye" as he awaited his employer's arrival.
Characters: So far, we have Psmith and Dick and Marlowe and Lulu, but anyone is welcome to join the madness if they can find a way.
Setting: Dick Foley's room in the Aternaville hotel
Privacy: Semi-public, I suppose
Rated: ?
It was a sunny afternoon, and Psmith had managed to wait Marlowe out at last: he had gone for lunch first. It was, the young man reflected sadly, highly unlikely that his return was going to bring enough for both of them, but it was at least a step along that path. He made this observation aloud to the kitten, who was really getting frightfully large at an alarming pace; he made that observation aloud, as well, and the orange tabby gave a sniff as if she understood him quite well and didn't think much of his opinion, thank you, sir.
The telephone rang - not terribly unusual; they'd had a few little things to do here and there, to keep the filing cabinets full of liquor - and Psmith answered it with a nice, professional-sounding "Philip Marlowe Investigations, how may I assist you?"
"Phil? Dick," the caller barked peremptorily. "Surprise for you. Room 312. Snap."
"Terribly sorry, but I'm - " Psmith began, but the caller had hung up before he'd gotten more than a syllable and a half in. " - not Marlowe," he finished rather lamely, then rounded to address the cat. "Clarinet Marmalade, I am sick and tired of being mistaken for that man. The last time it happened I got knocked over the head and carried about in a carpet, which is simply adding injury to insult. This sort of thing would be less likely to happen if he'd just let me put my name on the door, you know. But at any rate, that call was unmistakably from Comrade Foley, and I dare say I'm safe from head-knocks in that department, if only because the little chap'd need a step-ladder and I could simply walk away whilst he was setting it up." He heaved a great put-upon sigh. "I hope it's something interesting." He scribbled a note on a bit of scrap, affixed it to the back of Marlowe's chair so that he couldn't miss it, took up his hat and stick and left for the hotel.
Foley was not particularly pleased when he opened the door and found the tall, talkative Englishman rather than the fellow he'd expected. "You?"
"Marlowe wasn't in, as I attempted to inform you," said Psmith airily, removing his hat. "I oughtn't have needed to tell you at all, of course. Marlowe doesn't pronounce "Marlowe" "Mahlowe," but "Marlowe," and so you really should have twigged it directly I answered and said the name aloud. There's really no wonder your little agency sent you on a six-month leave: not much of a detective if you can't detect an accent, what?"
The little Canadian just looked annoyed.
"Now you may be wondering why I trotted along, and the answer is that I had nothing better to do and I made the assumption that you were calling on something business-related - therefore within my scope as the confidential secretary and/or junior partner. If it were, in fact, meant as a social call, I of course apologize, but I must also inform you in that case that you've got a bit of rather stiff competition in the form of a Montréalais police officer what has a crush on Marlowe's car - I think our dear boy's a bit smitten, if I may make the intimation."
Annoyance had progressed to irascibility on Dick's sharp-featured face, but after weighing his options for a moment, he stepped out of the doorway, jerked his chin toward the other door in the room, then led the way over. "Stiff in tub. Found noon-thirty. Up ten, shower, lunch out, back, boom." The last word was accompanied by a sharp push on the door and a gesture towards the bathtub. Psmith peered in interestedly.
There was, in fact, a stiff in the tub. It had once been a rather fat man in early middle age with an impressive moustachio under an equally impressive nose, clad in blue denim overalls and a red workshirt and hat. "I say," said Psmith, pulling out his monocle, "is it anyone you know?"
Foley simply shook his head.
"I suppose if it had been, you would scarcely have needed to call us about it." Psmith stepped closer and prodded the prone form with the end of his whangee in exactly the same manner as he had once prodded the prone forms of fellow Drones who had overindulged in drink and needed to be roused out before breakfast could be had. This prone form reacted identically to its predecessors, in that it failed to react at all - a very reassuring thing, when one thinks about it. "Whatever did you want it for? Rather macabre thing to collect, I should say. All sorts of trouble keeping it in a nice displayable condition, to say nothing of the amount of storage space required. No, no, there's definitely a reason that one generally is found to be looking to remove a corpse, not obtain it. You've gone and done it backwards, my dear Comrade Foley."
That put-upon audience of one merely rolled his eyes.
"Terribly considerate of him, though, wasn't it?"
This got a reaction. "Considerate? Hell. My tub! Can't take shower!"
"But think," Psmith said fervently, "of all the mess he failed to make, by depositing himself so conveniently within a wash-tub! And for what a noble cause he gave his life, as well." He placed his hat solemnly over his heart and spoke with deep-felt admiration and appreciation. "Why, I'd been growing bored."
They paused for a moment as Psmith made a show of exhibiting respect for the dead. Then he prodded the corpse once again. "I suppose I really should let Marlowe come and see. It would be terribly mean of me not to share the fun." He pulled his mobile from an inner jacket pocket. "Marlowe, are you on your way back to the office? Oh, I say, do stop by the hotel, won't you? We've got a dead chap in a tub up here, and it's dreadfully diverting, I'd hate for you to miss it."
He hummed "when a body meets a body coming through the rye" as he awaited his employer's arrival.