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Schpittdrueller

Mark Pearce

    The card in my hand read: Montefleur J. Schpittdrueller, Private Investigator.
    “Never heard of you,” I said, handing back the card.
    “Of course you haven’t,” he replied. “Secrecy is the cornerstone of my business.”
    His foot prevented my closing the door.
    “Look, Mr. Spit drooler . . .” I began.
    “Call me Monty,” he insisted.
    “All right, Monty. It’s a little hard for me to believe that you’re a bona fide private investigator.”
    “Why?”
    “For one thing, whoever heard of a private investigator soliciting business door to door?”
    “So I’m innovative,” he said, defensively. “Are you sure you don’t have any crimes you want investigated?”
    I assured him that I was sure. I also assured him that his foot could be removed from my door by choice or by hatchet. He chose the former.
    I didn’t expect to see him again, but I was miserably mistaken. Two days later, as I was walking to work, I stopped at an intersection and was bumped from behind. I turned around in time to see a man with a false beard and mustache running away. After I went a little further, I stopped at another intersection; this time I was knocked down. I noticed that my assailant was wearing a pair of glasses that apparently had been made from the bottoms of two Coke bottles. He lifted the glasses, squinted at me, then dashed off again. I recognized him almost immediately. It was my friend, Schpittdrueller.
    After he had knocked me down twice more and almost pushed me under a bus, I realized what was happening: this bizarre detective was shadowing me.
    For the next six days, my life was in almost constant peril. I didn’t mind him pursuing me; it was the shoving, bumping, tripping, and banging I couldn’t stand. I knew that something had to be done, so the next day I proceeded to work carrying a sawed-off baseball bat. When I came to the first intersection, I quickly sidestepped and swung. I then asked the prostrate detective why he was following me. He rose unsteadily, informed me he did not feel like conversing, and hobbled away.
    Three days later, he was on my doorstep again. Instead of a false beard and mustache, he wore a large nose bandage. (I had the feeling it was not a disguise.) He said that when he had first come to my door soliciting business, my suggestion about the hatchet had led him to believe me to possess a violent temperament. My subsequent behavior with a baseball bat had removed all doubt.
    I decided to confirm his suspicions, so I went to the closet and retrieved my shotgun. As he ran off, he shouted over his shoulder that he was going to keep me under surveillance.

    The next evening, I caught him staking out my living room. (At least I assume it was Schpittdrueller. It was someone disguised as a lamp, anyway.) My new attack dog cut his vigil short.
    I thought that would be the end of it, but it seems I was to have no relief. It was less than a week later I found him in my study “gathering evidence”. I picked up my bat and gave pursuit. He jumped out the window and ran down the street; he might even have gotten away if he hadn’t wasted so much lung power crying for help.
    I had just cornered him on Oak Avenue and was beginning to render my most persuasive argument when I noticed an unwelcome accumulation of spectators. I tried to explain matters to them, how he had been following me and harassing me, and breaking into my home. They looked unconvinced.
    “Go ahead, Monty. Tell them,” I prompted with the end of my bat.
    Monty was in no mood to talk. He just lay there beneath my heels, whimpering. The crowd showed definite indications of imminent rowdiness.
    It was at that moment I heard the police whistle. I removed myself from the supine detective and was about to dash down an alley when everything went blank.
    The headlines read: DETECTIVE OVERPOWERS LUNATIC—LEAD PIPE STOPS ASSAILANT. The article went on to say that Detective Schpittdrueller had been suspicious of me for quite some time and had been waiting to catch me red-handed. It lauded him as a great hero and predicted a brilliant career in crime fighting.
    I put up bail and returned to my home. I decided to avoid any trouble until after the trial. I did not even attack my lamp, though it had legs and was smoking a pipe.
    At the trial, Schpittdrueller wore a false nose and wig. He testified about my history of violence and boasted of the masterful way he had subdued me.
    He then looked suspiciously from side to side and sneaked out one of the courtroom windows.
    Now it was my turn. I recounted the events of the past couple of weeks. The judge began to laugh.
    “Do you really expect me to believe that?” he asked in a manner which suggested that it would be too much to expect.
    “No,” I sighed. “I’m obviously a blight on society. You had better lock me away.”
    The judge, a most perceptive man, took my advice.
    That night I sat in a prison cell and ate my meal off a tin plate. I was just about to finish when I heard a rasping noise at the window. I was shocked to discover Montefleur J. Schpittdrueller, sawing the bars with a file.
    “What are you doing?” I said.
    “I’ve come to get you out.”
    “But why?”
    He answered as if it were obvious. “I think we make a good team.”
    I did not reply; I simply walked back to my plate. There was no knife, but the fork had four sharp prongs. I picked it up. It was not much, but it would have to do.
    I returned to the window, sat on the cot, and waited.

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