The Duchess from LA

 

My name is Remington, Peter Remington. I live downtown LA where I have an office the size of a one of those telephone booths that prompt you to step outside to change your mind.  I am a private eye, whose job it is to investigate people who cheat and lie, love and care; in other words, human beings. I had been working late some weeks ago, I had just dismissed my secretary after some mutual intensive work as the phone rang. It was a call from a woman whose daughter had gone missing. She had been found in the sewer system of the City of London and she was very dead when the police fished her out of the water. Under normal circumstances I would jokingly have responded to the woman’s request by saying that London is outside my jurisdiction but I didn’t. The woman had heard of me and she lived in the LA-area with her daughter and husband. Her daughter used to be a choir girl according to her mother. My initial investigations soon revealed that her singing skills were very limited not to say non-existent and that she was one of those choir girls who prefer to work alone in the small hours downtown LA. My curiosity made me take the case. I wanted to see Trafalgar Square and study British girls in swinging London. Unfortunately, the budget didn’t allow me to bring my secretary and her temper got the best of her. Even though I promised her to bring some souvenirs from London and the autograph of Edward VIII she still cried profusely as I set out for the airport and a plane for New York City. There, I would get on a passenger ship for London.

I arrived in London several days later. A thick mist had been covering the city for days and you could not see the street signs. After checking in at my hotel, I got a cab that took me to the duke’s place outside London.

The duchess had met this British man of the gentry. His affection for her and her affection for his estate prompted her to tell him how much she loved him and to marry him. How do I know? Because the noble duke himself told me. Upon my arrival at the manor I found myself in a room at the size of a soccer field with a huge picture covering the wall opposite to the door. “Come, come”, the duke waved at me impatiently as I approached him and the picture. Then, the duke began to give me his side of the story about how he met her, the happy honeymoon, her roving eye etc.  but to be honest I didn’t listen very carefully. It was as if the voice of the duke came from a place far away. The picture completely swallowed all my attention. The eyes of the duchess pierced right through my soul and I got the feeling that I was made of glass. I was going to get to the bottom of this.