Chapter 10: Poundage

Having just gone through an epic battle, I was exhausted. No matter that the real encounter had taken place decades earlier, its dramatic effect was in my view undiminished. Let me enlarge. To my left, on the nearside corner of my desk, were three books on the only board game that has ever interested me. One of the volumes was a great effort entitled ‘The Chess Companion’, by Irving Chernev. Being too cheap to buy the works, I’d borrowed them from the library. Sorry, boys, I should have sprung for the price of all three and was ashamed. I still haven’t forked out, and remain guilt-ridden.

Among other delights, Chernev’s book presented some remarkable games, and included an effort to select the greatest of all battles. As an aficionado, I had to agree with the author’s verdict that the tussle between Alekhine and Bogolyubov, which took place at Hastings, England, in 1922 – would be hard to beat. There have been many examples of brilliancies in which one party trounced the other, but to anyone seeking a titanic struggle, let me recommend this breathtaker.

I have established over the years that the chess world is not noted for producing modest people. To take the two I’ve just mentioned, there was an incident when Alekhine was asked to produce his passport at some border post. His response: “I need no passport. I am Alekhine.” His opponent in the above-mentioned clash once said: “When I am white, I win because I am white, and when I am black, I win because I am Bogolyubov.” So, you’ll see how reticent these two lads were.

You will probably also gather that I was not too busy at the time. It was four o’clock on a Monday afternoon and I was thinking of playing the game over again, when I had a visitor. He didn’t waste time – the outer door had still not swung shut when the inner one opened, no knock. It occurred to me that I might consider some intermediate obstacle – a barbed wire entanglement, perhaps. Well, big business people talk about barriers to entry, don’t they? I suppose that’s different.

The incomer was a man in, I guessed, his late thirties. To be honest, at first sight I didn’t like anything about him. He was around five-ten, wearing light-blue overalls and heavy dark-brown workboots. He had an unruly mop of black hair – no headgear – and was burly, with wide shoulders and a chest I that reckoned was at least forty-five inches, unexpanded. He also had a straggly black moustache. Everything about him exuded aggression. His face was pock-marked from what I imagined was the residue of acne. He was sweating a little and breathing heavily, and even at a distance of six feet, didn’t smell too good.

“Don Burrows,” he grunted.

Was that an introduction, or a job description? Maybe of a tunneller? You might admit it was susceptible of more than one interpretation. Having summoned immediate hostility toward this character, I went for obtuse. “Does he?” I said.

“What?”

“You said Don Burrows. Are you telling me who you are, or what somebody does for a living?”

He stepped up to the desk, leaned across and glared at me. From that range, I liked him even less than before. “You some kinda wise guy?” he growled.

“Wisdom is relative,” I said. “Compared with some people, I’m quite sagacious. I don’t think I’d come out too well against Aristotle or Descartes.”

“Man, you got a funny way of talking,” he said.

“I work at it,” I replied. “Did you want something?”

He stood back, seeming to simmer down slightly, which is to say I couldn’t quite see smoke coming out of his ears. “Like I told you,” he said, “I’m Don Burrows. I drive a truck for Povey’s Animal Feeds.”

“Ah,” I said, “that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

I gave him a knowing smile. “Just one of my little ways,” I said. “I like to guess people’s occupations. You know, like the man at 221B, Baker Street.” I don’t know why I threw in that last bit, as it seemed to me unlikely that Mr Burrows would be familiar with the address of Conan Doyle’s master sleuth. He shrugged, evidently not wanting an explanation of my comment. Just as well, since in my prevailing mood I didn’t have one that wasn’t offensive, didactic or both.

He leaned over the desk again, giving me a whiff of breath which did nothing to help his cause. In fairness to him, the offending smell was of second-hand onions, not booze. “Say, are you really a detective?”

“Yes, I am. At times I detect like mad. Then again, I have my off-days. Sometimes I couldn’t detect an earthquake from the epicentre.” At that point, it occurred to me that my flippancy, though entertaining me, wasn’t doing a lot for this budding relationship. After all, the man might turn out to be a client – such people had been known to call occasionally. Bearing that in mind, I also thought of the state of my in-tray, which was as empty as an election promise, and of the pending file, in the same condition. I wondered how a truthful advert offering my services would read. For all your detecting needs try Cyril Potts. He’s uncouth, snotty and aggressive, but drop in anyway. You might get lucky. Yes, that seemed about right.

I chastised myself silently for being a lousy salesman and for coming up short in the manners department. True, this fellow gave indications of oafishness, but maybe he knew no better, while I did. It was time for a change of tack. “Look, Mr Burrows,” I said, “obviously we’re both feeling cantankerous. Why don’t you take a seat? Let’s pretend the last two minutes didn’t happen and maybe we can get along.”

“Okay,” he said, with a big sigh. He thudded down. “I guess maybe I am a little upset. It’s on account of my wife.”

“Okay,” I said. “Relax and tell me about it.”

“All right if I smoke?” he said. I nodded, digging an ashtray from a drawer and pushing it his way. He offered me a cigarette which I declined, then he lit up and stretched back, sighing. “She’s been acting real queer lately.”

“How?”

“She goes out alone, daytime. She never did that before.”

“What’s so odd?” I said. “I mean, she’s a grown woman, right? Why shouldn’t she go out?” I could have answered that myself. Being cooped up with this man might not have been an undiluted pleasure. Pipe, slippers and knitting were not the first words that came to mind.

“Well, it’s like this. She’s thirty-six. We’ve been married for twelve years. We don’t have children and we never did anything separate before. Then it started around two months back. All of a sudden, she took to going out in the afternoons and doing the shopping on her own. We always did that together, evenings or weekends. I asked her about it and she said she just wanted a little variety.” Then he seemed to get quite animated. “Dammit, Cyril ... okay if I call you that?” I nodded, waving him on. “I’m a decent guy, right? I mean, I provide and all that. Okay, I work hard and maybe I get tired. That’s normal, isn’t it?”

Not having experienced marital bliss or strife, I didn’t know what, if anything, was normal, but had no intention of letting on. “It sounds sort of average,” I said. “Can you pinpoint anything that might have been a catalyst?”

“A what?” Again, I should have known better. “I mean, can you think of an incident that might have caused this change in your wife’s behaviour?”

“No, I can’t – and don’t think I haven’t tried. She’s just gone off the rails.”

“You said that you’d spoken with her. Did you follow up?”

Now he became acutely uncomfortable, twisting his hands and fiddling with his fingers, generating a tension that crossed the desk in waves. Amazingly, he kept control of his cigarette. “We don’t talk a lot,” he said. “I did mention it again, just one time. Same result. She won’t say anything except what I told you.”

I sensed that I was in danger of being dragged into an advisory role for which I felt unsuited. Still, one must try. “Look, Don,” I said – all boys together now – “I’m no expert in these matters, but in my line of work, psychology crops up frequently. I’ve noticed that women often react pretty sharply to what men might consider trivial incidents. I could tell you a few tales that might curl your eyeballs.” This was pure drivel, as I couldn’t have done anything of the sort, but was certain Don wouldn’t pursue it. “Are you quite sure you didn’t do or say some little thing recently that might have started things off?”

He shrugged again. “None that I can think of, Cyril. And believe me, I’ve tried. I can’t figure it. We never paint the town - I’m mostly too tuckered out for that, and I don’t go for pill-popping to freshen me up. Maybe it’s just that two people get on top of one another after a while.”

I knew about the dangers of revising a first opinion of any new acquaintance, but had to concede that since he’d cooled off, Don Burrows was making a less unfavourable impression on me than he had at the beginning. Maybe he’d been too worked up when he arrived. And there was no law that said he had to be the essence of urbanity. Also, he’d referred to children rather than kids, the latter term being anathema to me. “I think I’ve got the idea, Don,” I said. “I’ve a lot on, but as it happens, I have a window right now.” Window indeed. I had Crystal Palace. “A couple of days might do it.”

We went into the matter of my fees, in which respect he surprised me by retaining his relative equanimity. “I get it,” he said. “Sometimes you don’t work, so you have to make up for it.” I was ... well ... appreciative. He went on: “I’m not a rich man, Cyril, but I might be able to go for three or four days. If that isn’t enough, we’ll talk again.”