The Final Solution: A Story of Detection by Michael Chabon Read Free Book Online Page A

but it had been observed that a number of them appeared to speak with the accents of far-off Central European lands where, perhaps, the fact that Galloways were beef cattle un-suited to the production of milk was not appreciated. The south wing, severed from the hall by the ostensible milk needs of the nation, languished. One or two of the surviving Curlewes haunted its upper storey. And in its grand old library-the very room in which the old man had, by means of a cleverly placed tin of sardines, unmasked the larcenous feline-Mr. Parkins, and a dozen or so other historians too old or unfit for war, pored over the estate's world-renowned and unparalleled store of tax rolls, account books, and judicial records, kept by the Curlewe family during the seven centuries they had ruled over this part of Sussex.
    "I'm sorry, sir," said the young soldier who sat behind a small metal desk in a small metal building at the end of the drive that led up to the house. It was a building of recent and cheap manufacture. One could hardly fail to notice that the soldier wore a Webley in a holster. "But you can't come in without the proper credentials."
    The grandson of Sandy Bellows, that dour and tireless exposer of charlatans, displayed his identification card.
    "I'm investigating a murder," he said, sounding less sure of himself than either his ancestor or the old man would have liked.
    "I heard all about it," said the soldier. He looked, for a moment, truly pained by the thought of Shane's death, long enough for it to strike the old man as curious. Then his face resumed its placid smirk. "But a police badge ain't credentials enough, I'm afraid. National security."
    "National-this is a dairy, is it not?" the old man cried.
    "Milk and milk production are essential to the British war effort," the soldier said brightly.
    The old man turned to Sandy Bellows's grandson and saw to his annoyance that the young man seemed to accept this egregious lie. The inspector took a calling card from his wallet and jotted a few words on the reverse.
    "Might I ask you to carry this message to Mr. Parkins?" the inspector said. "Or arrange for that to be done?"
    The soldier read the message on the back of the card, and considered it for a moment. Then he reached for a black handset and spoke into it softly.
    "What did you write?" the old man asked.
    The young inspector raised an eyebrow, and it was as if the face of Sandy Bellows were looking out at him across the decades, irritated and amused.
    "Can't you guess?" he said.
    "Don't be impertinent." And then, out of the side of his mouth, "You wrote, Richard Shane is dead."
    "I am very much aggrieved to hear that," Francis Parkins declared. They sat in a large room at the back of the south wing, just below the library itself. At one time it had been the servants' dining room; the old man, seeking the poisoner, had conducted interviews with the household staff at this very table. Now the room was being used as a kind of canteen. Tumbled cities of tea tins. Biscuit wrappers. A gas ring for the kettle, and an acrid smell of scorched coffee. The ashtrays had not been emptied. "He was a fine fellow." "Undoubtedly," the old man said. "He was also a parrot thief."
    This Parkins was a long, lean man, dressed like a don in a good tweed suit ill-treated. His head looked too large for his neck, his Adam's apple for his throat, and his hands for his frail white wrists. They were clever hands, supple and expressive. He wore little steel-rimmed spectacles and the lenses caught the light in a way that made it difficult to read his eyes. He gave every appearance of being a cool and settied fellow. There was nothing to be learned from the way Parkins reacted to news of the parrot's disappearance, unless it was something in his reply itself.
    "Where is Bruno now?" he said.
    He lit a cigarette and tossed the match onto the pile of fag ends in the nearest ashtray. Keeping his face with its illegible eyes on the inspector, he paid not