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The woman in my office was about fifty, neatly dressed and weeping a veritable Noah’s flood of tears. Well, it could be worse, I thought, if it were a man weeping, then I realized that this was probably a sexist idea. Between sobs she choked out the information that her name was Trudy Bleever and she was a widow.
I tried to console her: “There, there, Mrs. Bleever, no problem is so big it can’t be solved,” knowing that I was lying.
Hank noticed that as the wastebasket filled with wet, crumpled tissue, the box of Kleenex on my desk was becoming depleted and he unobtrusively added another box. I wondered if I could claim boxes of tissue as an income tax deduction.
Finally Mrs. Bleever managed to explain the reason for her visit: “It’s gone, Mr. Tuff, a priceless heirloom that has been in the family for decades. It’s been stolen!” I pictured a necklace, bracelet, or tiara, probably studded with diamonds and other jewels.
“What is it?”
“An ashtray.”
“An ashtray?” As the habit of smoking declines, perhaps it was becoming a relic, but still…
“Not just any ashtray. It’s from the Titanic.”
I was flabbergasted.
“Who knew you had it?”
“Everybody who knows me. I intended to leave it to my son and now it’s been stolen.”
“Stolen? Couldn’t it just have been misplaced?”
“Tuesday night I had friends – five couples – for drinks and they were admiring it again, but after they had all left, it was missing. I hate to suspect friends, but I can’t see any other explanation.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s a typical ashtray: several inches square, but with a coloured side view of the ship with its four majestic smokestacks.” Three functional, I remembered, and the fourth merely for aesthetic purposes.
“If I had a choice between having the ashtray or my husband back, it would be a difficult decision,” she confessed. I wondered how Mr. Bleever would feel: losing one’s wife to another man is one thing, but being second choice to an ashtray is another.
I explained my fees, took Mrs. Bleever’s address and telephone number and the names and addressed of her friends, and she left – with a pocketful of tissue.
Hank and I discussed the case. “Did they have ashtrays on the Titanic?” he wondered.
“I suppose so, but why would someone getting into a lifeboat on a sinking ship take an ashtray?”
“Maybe someone who didn’t want to pollute the Atlantic by flicking cigarette or cigar ash into it,” mused Hank.
“If his cigarettes were still dry enough to light,” I said, “and there probably weren’t any ‘No Smoking’ signs in the lifeboats.”
I did take this incredible case seriously enough to plan a strategy, however. The next day, Saturday, I would visit each of the five suspect couples and, because they might communicate, I would use a survey as an excuse, hoping I could talk my way into each house. I made several copies of a questionnaire on topics such as abortion, capital punishment, and tax increases.
At my first stop, six small, screaming children ran about a house bedecked with crucifixes and pictures of Jesus, Mary, and the Pope. The question on abortion loosed a tirade that made me feel as if I had horns and cloven hooves. I wanted to defend myself by saying: “Hey, I’m just taking a survey. I didn’t make up these questions,” but that was, of course, a lie.
I don’t smoke, but I asked permission to light up, and when the husband offered a chipped saucer as an ashtray, I said: “Thank you, but I must show some willpower. I’m trying to quit.” I could eliminate these people as suspects – or could I? If they had the heirloom, would they be likely to show it to a stranger?
The walls of the second were decorated with framed copies of the Ten Commandments. Were all of Mrs. Bleever’s friend hyperpious? The Sixth Commandment, “Thou shalt not kill,” sparked a sermonlike decrying of capital punishment. My request for an ashtray brought the suggestion that I use the soil in the plant pots. “Maybe the ash will fertilize the plants,” said the wife.
The third family has just paid a large and they felt unjustified tax bill, so that question prompted an antitax diatribe. The proffered ashtray was an empty soup can.
The last couple, when I requested an ashtray, exchanged looks and he produced a genuine article … with a picture of the Titanic! “Is this genuine?” I asked.
“Alas, no,” she replied, and he added: “We stole it.”
“You stole it?” I said, surprised by their candour.
“Yes. A friend of ours had it and is convinced it is really from the Titanic, but we suspected it was phoney and when we showed it to a man we know who can read Oriental languages, he confirmed our suspicions. This tiny print across the edge says ‘Made in China 1920.’
The husband added: “The woman, Mrs. Bleever, would be devastated if she knew the truth. As it is, she can live in the hope that someday it may be returned.”
I then confessed the real reason for my visit and we decided that we would withhold the painful truth from Mrs. Bleever. We considered getting her a copy of James Cameron’s Titanic which she could watch on her TV, then abandoned the idea because it would only remind her of the lost heirloom.
I told her that the thief or thieves were too clever for me and I waived all fees and expenses for my unsuccessful investigation, but I wonder, if she knew that the artifact were a phoney, would she still choose it over her husband?
