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Previously
… JC
was in an unfamiliar
room, with a strange
man staring at him. So
many things rushed
through his mind. He
didn’t speak; he
only thought something
like: “Where am
I? What the fuck is
this place?”
“What the hell
happened?” he
asked the strange man,
who replied, “I
don’t know. You
were searching through
our files when I found
you lying here.”
Very concerned, JC went
on, “What?
Where’s Brenda?
Where’s the naked
girl?” To which
the stranger said,
“I don’t
know, detective.”
The word detective
caused even more damage
to his mind, and JC no
longer understood
anything.”
“Detective?”
JC murmured, then
asked, “Where am
I?” At that point
the strange man was
like,
“Really?”
but soon decided to
begin explaining,
“You were in The
New Yorker building
because you were hired
to find out who stole
Mr. Ross’s
pen.” JC
didn’t understand
anything and asked the
strange man who Mr.
Ross was.
Slightly annoyed, the
strange man went on,
“Harold Ross, the
editor of The New
Yorker. He received, as
a birthday gift, a pen
with his name engraved
on it. It was a Parker
Duofold, the ‘Big
Red,’ from Mr.
Chaplin…”
But before he could be
interrupted again, the
strange man pressed on:
“The movie star
Charlie Chaplin. The
problem is that the pen
disappeared from Mr.
Ross’s desk,
which means someone
stole the precious
item. You know, an
editor without a pen is
like an actor without a
role. We need to find
Mr. Ross’s pen
before everyone goes
crazy.”
JC murmured to himself,
“It’s all
senseless!” At
this moment, a tall and
handsome man approached
them and spoke directly
to the man who was
talking with JC.
“Carl, has my
chocolate box already
arrived?” The man
replied, “Yes,
Mr. Dahl. Truman
Capote, the new
copyboy, took it to the
Checked Room.”
The tall man left. Carl
looked at JC and
explained who that man
was: “Roald Dahl,
he’s crazy for
chocolates,” and
went on, “but as
I was saying to you,
they hired you to crack
the case. And when you
got here, you first
wanted to look into our
archives to understand
what The New Yorker is.
So you came here,
started reading the
files, and I took the
opportunity to go to
the bathroom. When I
came back, I found you
lying down.”
Then JC began saying
that there must have
been some mistake.
“I’m a
Frenchman. I came to
New York to pursue an
acting career,
something off-Broadway.
I’m not a
detective…”
Suddenly, another guy
with gray hair and
thick, heavy glasses
approached them as well
and asked, “JC,
have you found out
anything?” JC
looked at the man and,
utterly surprised,
shouted, “James
Thurber? What the hell
is happening here? How
do you know my
name?” James
Thurber replied calmly,
“I hired you. You
were recommended by
Mrs. Christie.”
JC, stunned—and
afraid to ask, but
unable to stop
himself—went on:
“Who’s Mrs.
Christie? Agatha
Christie?”
Thurber nodded.
“Yes. The queen
of mysteries. She said
you’re as great
as Hercule
Poirot.”
At that moment, JC,
completely amazed,
stood up and ran out of
there. As it happened,
in the corridor, he ran
into the young Roger
Angell, who, like the
Cheshire Cat from Alice
in Wonderland, began
saying things to him,
such as, “Listen
to it! Evil Live! Read
it backwards. What an
incredible palindrome!
What do you
think?”
JC was very confused.
“Who are
you?” Roger
responded, “Roger
Angell.” JC was
very excited.
“Are you the son
of Katharine
White?” To which
Roger replied,
“Yes. She’s
my mom.” JC went
on, “Oh my God!
She was the
magazine’s first
fiction editor at The
New
Yorker…”
Roger said, “Of
course. What’s
the matter with
that?” JC looked
at him and, completely
speechless, decided to
open another door to
see what hell he would
meet.
JC entered the room and froze. “Wow! Oh my God!”
Lillian Ross was seated
in a chair in front of
Ernest Hemingway and
John Huston. JC thought
he was inside a Woody
Allen movie—more
precisely, Midnight in
Paris—but he
didn’t have much
time to think because
Lillian asked,
“Are you the
French
detective?” John
Huston added, “Of
course he is! We found
our man!” Lillian
said to JC,
“We’ve
already dealt with Mr.
Ross. You will be going
with us to
Paris.” Ernest
Hemingway stood up, put
his hand on JC’s
shoulder, and said,
“I never got a no
in my entire
life.” JC,
feeling like an
outfielder who had
dropped an easy ball,
stared ahead,
petrified, and could
only think, “I
get it—this is a
nightmare. If I
didn’t die, I
must have fallen into
the multiverse.”
TO BE CONTINUED.
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