"I'm not sure you can pull this off," I sighed, placing my pen on the desk and lacing my fingers together. I glanced over the table, expecting him to throw a tantrum. Which he did.
"Why? What makes you think I can't do it?!" My client shouted, perturbed, crossing his arms and leaning back in his clearly expensive armchair.
"Well, you just don't seem like you would have the guts," I said quietly, adjusting my bowler hat. I glanced around the study. He lived in a luxurious manor in the English countryside, he had butlers and an extensive collection of family portraits (whose eyes followed me around the room) and other precious paintings hanging precariously from the fleur-de-lis golden wallpaper. He been served his entire life. He clearly didn't like to get his hands dirty. Why would a murder be any different?
I leaned back in the office chair (tiny, in comparison to his) as I looked expectantly at my client. My sunglasses made my vision dark, but I could still make some things out. He had dark curly hair and he had sharp, piercing blue eyes. Definitely of European descent, I was thinking, maybe French or Romanian. He looked like a stubborn man, who got offended easily. When it came to committing a crime, he would work with emotion, not without it.
"And why is that?" He asked, angrily.
I rolled my eyes. Thankfully my glasses hid this. Beginners, so inexperienced. I glanced down at the summary of the crime he intended to commit: A murder of a lawyer, a man named Jason Veleno.
"So, this guy," I rubbed my temples and changed the subject, "you want to poison him and make it look like an accident?" He nodded. "Well, then I would suggest Clostridium Botulinum. Commonly found in expired canned food. Make sure you buy some canned food and place it in the bin. It will give the police a false lead. As for the poison, I can deliver some to this house by the end of the day, if you want?" I advised.
"That would be lovely, Sir- " he hesitated, "what was your name again?"
"Wallace. Wallace Parkinson," I said, praying it wasn't yesterday's alias.
"Oh, I thought it was Wilbur," he said. I exhaled. Keeping up with aliases was tiring.
"So, it's settled then?" I clapped my hands together and rose, "The poison will arrive in two days, latest," I told him. My eyes floated to the diamond-encased fountain pen which lay dejectedly on the desk.
"That's brilliant, " he cheered, starting to smile an evil sneer I had seen so many times before. That murderous sneer, that scary glint in their eyes, which began to burn with hell's fire. He held out his hand. I looked at it, maybe for a bit too long, before I shook it. I instantly regretted it. They were dripping with sweat. The hand I hadn't used to shake his hand, floated towards the fountain pen and snatched it.
As I straightened myself up, I pocketed the fountain pen. I picked up the stack of papers (which included the summary of the crime, a short backstory of the victim and soon-to-be-murderer and a few terms and conditions) and tried to hide my disappointment. This man was bound to make mistakes. It was going to take ages to correct! I can kiss sleep goodbye, I thought.
I handed my client an envelope which contained the bill. He took it without hesitation. Then he reached forward and slammed his ringed fingers on a silver bell, one of those they had in receptions. The sound echoed off the wooden walls and was followed by the call of his butler. The butler's rosy face appeared in the door frame.
"You summoned me, sir?" He asked in a thick British accent.
"Please, escort Sir Parkinson to his car, we have finished our business, " he said, not looking up, his eyes fixed on the bill. He then nonchalantly handed the envelope to his butler. I tried not to look repulsed when I saw he had left a sweat mark on the paper. Was he really this nervous? Or did he just have a problem?
I had done expensive jobs before, such as advised murderers who intended to kill a member of the royal family, or those who wanted to rob the Bank of England. Those had been expensive because obviously; I wanted a share. But a simple lawyer murder? That was cheap and common. Most of my first cases were criminals who wanted to kill the opposing lawyer, in order to get themselves or someone close to them out of trouble. It was, not to sound cheesy, elementary. Even the poison was dirt cheap. But after seeing this man's mansion, I had to raise the price by a couple zeroes.
I was anxious to leave the disapproving gazes of my client's deceased relatives and followed the butler outside, through polished passages and Renaissance living rooms. He opened the front door for me and I walked outside onto the driveway. My black Porsche waited in the driveway. The butler greeted my chauffeur, who tipped his hat in return. "Have a nice day, Sir Parkinson," the butler bowed.
I thanked him, wished him the same, and got into the car. Just a couple more seconds and I would not have to keep acting in this poor charade. As soon as the butler closed my door, my chauffeur slammed his foot on the gas pedal and tore out the driveway, like we always did: as fast as possible. After all, I was a Private Criminal. One knows not to dwell in murderers' homes.
Once we had left the mansion far behind us, my chauffeur handed me a bottle of water, which I gulped down. My throat was sore and raw from talking so low. I removed my sunglasses, and took off my bowler hat, letting my long hair flow down my shoulders. I picked up the pocket mirror I kept in the door, and ripped off the fake moustache, my toasted almond-coloured skin blossoming pink after its sudden removal.
"How did it go, miss Southwood?" My chauffeur asked, grinning.
I carried on rubbing my face as I said, "Oh Bart, these beginners are so ignorant. He has no idea what he is in for."