“I know, we’ve met,” said Annika.
Marja, who was now working for social services, looked around the kitchen.
“So,” she said, “this is how he’s living, is it? I see...”
“His name is Gustav,” said Annika.
“I know, I know,” said Marja, walking over and opening the larder door. “I didn’t know there were people up here who still lived like this.”
She bent down and studied the remains of a half-eaten mouse.
“Hm,” she said. “Things can’t go on like this.”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” said the policewoman.
Marja opened the china cabinet and held a glass up to the light.
“We’ll have to sort out a place in a residential home,” she said.
Annika was feeling increasingly uncomfortable.
“Just a minute,” she broke in. “Have you spoken to Gustav? He’s managed perfectly well here for his whole life. Rather than moving him, couldn’t he be provided with a little bit of help here in the house from time to time?”
Marja threw her hands wide, a small smile playing around her lips.
“He has the right to a decent life, Annika,” she said, “just like everyone else.”
“Exactly. But all he needs for that is a little help and support.”
Marja shook her head. “This is not an acceptable environment.”
“And that’s up to you to decide on Gustav’s behalf, is it?” Annika said quietly.
The woman contemplated Annika for a little while.
“A little bit of help from time to time,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Well, that’s a possibility, of course. We could give that a try first. It would have to be someone local, someone who’s able to come and see to Gustav more or less every day. We’d need to find someone like that,” she said, her expression wise, “someone with experience who lives close by...”
At that moment Pettersson, the other police officer, walked in with the old man trailing behind him.
“Get that trigger-happy old bastard away from me!” screamed Ingela Jönsson.
Gustav stiffened in the doorway when he saw her standing in his kitchen.
“Get that wood thief out of my house!” he yelled. “I’m not having that thieving bitch on my property!”
“Stop it!” yelled Annika. “Stop it right now! Use your brains, for pity’s sake!”
A deathly silence fell in the kitchen as five pairs of eyes stared at her; the only sound was the ticking of the clock and the crackling of the birch wood.
“It’s Christmas Day,” she said. “I don’t care whether you believe in God or not, but you ought to take that as a sign. If you can just use a little bit of sense and show a little bit of tolerance, you can sort this out. Otherwise you’re both screwed,” she said, looking first at Gustav and then at Ingela.
“What are you talking about?” Ingela said stupidly.
“You two are the solution to each other’s problems,” said Annika.
She quickly pushed past Ingela Jönsson and Old Gustav, stopped by the door, and confronted their surprised looks.
“It’s up to you now,” she said as she closed the door behind her and stepped out into the snow.
A Good Man of Business
by David H. Ingram
Although he has had one previous fiction publication in a small-press literary magazine (The First Line), this is David H. Ingram’s first appearance in a national magazine and his first mystery. The St. Louis author is also a playwright, several of whose plays have been performed and published. He recently completed his first novel, a mystery set during a mayoral election, and has begun its sequel. His story makes a fine beginning to this department’s selections for our 70th-anniversary year.
Blinking lights, silver garlands, and boxes wrapped in paper decorated with jovial Santa Clauses, bound and bowed with satin ribbons, all mixed in among the bottles filling the mirrored shelves behind the bar at Jimmy’s Tavern.
I’ll be glad when this yearly mania is over, thought H. Sullivan Gleason, sipping his whiskey sour. December twenty-sixth was three days away but it couldn’t come soon enough for him. The psychotic joviality that gripped people at Christmastime drove him crazy. Like the idiots in the corner booth, singing Christmas carols with drunken abandon, the words slurred and half-forgotten but shouted boisterously nonetheless.
Gleason drained his drink and held up the empty glass for Emma, the bartender, to see. From halfway down the bar, she raised her index finger while smiling apologetically. Simple sign language was the only way to communicate, what with the Scotch and Soda Boys’ Choir in the corner.
Gleason glanced over his shoulder at the revelers. “I wish God would rest every merry gentleman in this damn room!”
“You misplaced the comma,” a voice beside him said.
“Hmmm?” he said, turning on his barstool. “What’s that?”
The man occupying the spot next to Gleason wore a three-piece charcoal-gray suit with a tri-fold in the breast pocket, his silk paisley tie carefully knotted, his black wingtips shining even in the dimly lit bar. Gleason placed the man in his mid fifties, much older than his own age of thirty-four, though he wouldn’t mind a similar head of dense black hair, brushed with a touch of silver at the temples, when he reached that age. However, the man’s most stunning features were his ice-blue eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man said. “Occasionally my tongue wags before I consider how my words might strike the listener. I said, you misplaced the comma, which could be pompous or plain rude, depending upon how it’s received. So, please accept my apology.”
“No offense taken.” The man’s English accent made Gleason smile. “I’m curious, though. What do you mean about the comma?”
“The song’s title is ‘God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen.’ The comma is after the ‘merry.’ It’s like wishing a person pleasant dreams, though we English always take extra words to do it. The gentlemen in question could be morose, sullen, or obstinate. Merriment is not a requirement.”
He’s right, Gleason thought, that is damn pompous, but it sounds so good with his accent. “That’s interesting, Mr...?”
“Noel’s my name, Charles Noel. And you are?”
“H. Sullivan Gleason, but please call me Sully. All my friends do.”
Noel smiled as they shook hands. “Thank you for that distinction, Sully.”
“What line of business are you in, Charles?”
“I’m in charge of North American accounts for Chapman and Hall Assurance of London. It means I spend time on both sides of the pond.” From a thin gold case, Noel carefully withdrew a business card, pinching it by the edges, and handed it to Gleason. The cursive script read:
Chapman and Hall
16 Bayham St
Camden Town
London NW1
In the corner was printed: Charles Noel, V.P., North American Operations.
“I hope your year was better than mine,” Gleason said, sticking the card in his pocket. “I’m the Midwest regional manager for Bradbury, Evans, and Sim.”
The carolers finished a jangling version of “Jingle Bells” and moved on to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve seen your advertisements. ‘We’ll grow your money; we’ll earn your trust.’” Noel’s voice matched perfectly the sonorous tones of the ad’s voice-over actor. The Englishman nodded knowingly. “It has been a hard year for investment firms. But you’ve made out well personally, haven’t you?”
“I did okay.” Gleason, indeed everyone at BE&S, was careful with compensation queries these days. Last year’s bonuses had unleashed a firestorm of criticism.