TMB XIII: Breaking and Entering

Arthur Koesthler would be buried someday next week. He'd died of a heart attack. That's what the autopsy report stated. Had worked for a major weapon manufacturing company all his life, until at age 52 he was "released" from work by one of the management hotshots running the firm. He was looking for new work, but naturally didn't come across any. We had come into contact, arranged for a meeting, and he'd succumbed to ill health. Had died in his hotel room three days ago, all doors closed, all locks intact, no fingerprints other than his own, no visitors, no nothing. Or so the story went.

He'd had a troublesome life eventually, but he'd left these troubles behind. On the other hand, with his death my troubles were only starting.

In a way, smoking was like bicycling or swimming: you never really forgot how to do it once you'd gotten the hang of it. Could quit smoking for years (or bicycling for that matter), and one day return and take up just where you'd let off. In other words, the pack of cigarettes lasted me for about three hours. My conscious self lasted about half an hour longer. That was when I decided it was about time to go home.

Usually, I'm a careful and considerate guy, paying attention to details. Tonight, I wasn't – drinking always brought another type of my personality in the foreground, the one sporting reckless abandon and cunning funkiness, or so I thought. Thus, I covered the distance to my home in a cheerful mood, not wasting a thought on my quandary, but savouring the very last cigarette and the fresh, moist night air. I unlocked the door, took up a day's worth of free newspapers and junk mail, and headed up the stairs. I dropped the lot right on the side table next to the door, went straight to the kitchen, and retrieved a chilled bottle of beer for good measure. I removed the crown cap and took a sip. Then I noticed that something was wrong.

That something could be easily traced to the man seated on my sofa. Above average height, rather muscular frame, wore a dark suit, dark shoes looking more expensive than my entire furniture, and a dark look – the last one on his face. I froze in my tracks, then leaned on the door frame. He eyed me, silently. He seemed at ease with himself and the world. The dark look of his just served to underline that appearance.

I did a quick mental check: the lock on the door had been intact. The door itself had been closed. The air in the room was as stale as always after a long day out – so no broken windows. Of course, he could have applied some more subtle methods of breaking and entering, but I couldn't tell. As far as I knew, he could've been in here all day long. Would explain his vibrancy. Of course, I could always ask.

Had he wanted to kill me, I'd already been dead. So I decided I could just as well take another sip of my beer and try to disentangle the situation.

"Care for a beer?", I asked. That elicited no discernible response.

"How'd you come in?"

He still fixated on my eyes, but now his mouth started moving. We were making progress.

"Arthur Koesthler", he said. "Mr. X." Then continued to watch me closely.

The rest of my beer I downed in a go. My inner turmoil I kept to myself.