Honest Doubt

"Some work of noble note, may yet be done."–Tennyson, "Ulysses"When I had finished writing up my report, covering everything in theinvestigation as it then stood, I leaned back in my chair and gave myselfup to facing facts. So far, so good, but only so far and no further. Iknew the moment had come to call upon Kate Fansler.She had been recommended to me as the logical, perhaps the only person whocould be of help at the current impasse. As a private investigator of somereputation and accomplishment, I never shy away from consulting anyone whocan offer me a shove, however minimal, in the right direction, but KateFansler gave me pause. She was a detective herself, if strictly amateur,and a professor into the bargain. I don't mind asking experts forexplanations in any abstruse field–I'm ready to admit what's beyond mypowers–but I couldn't help fearing that the air that lady breathed was alittle too rarefied for my earthly self.And then of course there was the fact that she was said to be slender. I,being fat, dislike thin women–I'm more open-minded about men–and in theend I admitted this to my client, the one who had suggested Fansler. I wasguaranteed that though she was undoubtedly skinny–that term, being vaguelyinsulting, appeals to me–Fansler never worried about her weight orthreatened to go on a diet.If there is one thing more revolting than another, it is thin womencomplaining about their fat and screaming about their need to lose weight.Not Fansler, I was assured. With her it's a matter of metabolism–genes,really. She eats what she wants and hates health food and any form oflow-fat diet, my client told me. Well, blessings are unevenly distributedin this world, though Hindus think we all earned our fate by our actionsin a previous life. I probably was starving, skeletal, and yearning forfood every minute of the day and night. Hence my current figure.I'd gone to many doctors and diet specialists, all of whom tried todetermine why I was fat, and how I might get thin. It was always assumedit was some problem with my psyche. One day I happened to meet up with adoctor who explained that there was such a thing as an inherited tendencyto largeness. He held to this view even under my vigorouscross-examination. I began not only to accept the fact that I was fat,that my father had weighed three hundred pounds and my mother not farbehind, but that, furthermore, once people got used to the idea of my sizeit might not matter that much anymore. It was genes with me, same as withFansler.But of course it still matters. I collect plump people who areaccomplished as well as heavy. It helps to knit up my raveled self-esteem.People seldom realize it, but fat is the only affliction that has neverbeen protected by affirmative action, antibias laws, or any other categorylike sexual harassment, date rape, or domestic violence, though I seem toremember someone once wrote a book called Fat Is a Feminist Issue. Thepoint is, it's okay to say and do anything to fat people short of murder,and to refuse them a job because you think their failure to lose weight isa character and mental defect. They don't even call it heft-disadvantagedor weightily challenged.There was Nero Wolfe. It's easier for men, of course, with this as witheverything else. Dorothy Sayers was fat. When she lived in Witham, theyused to say that her husband drank and she ate. When she wasn'ttranslating Dante, that is. When she'd had enough of Peter Wimsey. I'mafraid I've gotten in the habit of mentioning my size to bring it out intothe open when I meet someone so that we can go on to other things. I'dhave to be careful not to overdo that with Kate Fansler.Enough, I told myself firmly. Without thinking about it too much, I pickedup the phone and called her, introducing myself as recommended to her byClaire Wiseman, who used to teach at Clifton."Ah," Fansler said, "what Charles Dickens called a mutual friend." Shemade an appointment to see me at her home the next afternoon.My name is Estelle Aiden Woodhaven, licensed as a private investigator;everyone calls me Woody. Estelle was my grandmother's name; Aiden is whatthey would have named me if I'd been a boy, which they had rather hoped Iwould be. It's easy to figure out what Woody is short for; I think itdefinitely sounds investigative, which Estelle certainly does not. One ofthe fancy academic types I've been dealing with said it soundedandrogynous, so people wouldn't know I was a woman until they wereface-to-face with me. Right, I thought; and they wouldn't know I was fat,either.Of course, I didn't say all this to Kate Fansler when I met her the nextafternoon; I just drew attention to my size, because I find it's necessaryto assure clients and those I consult that I may be fat, but I can getaround. In fact, I told her, I coach a college hockey team–field hockey,not ice; I'm also trained in self-defense. Also, I pointed out, there's anadvantage in looking like a lazy linebacker if you're not really sluggish."Sorry to have put you through all that," I said to Kate Fansler. "I guessthe thought of talking to you made me nervous."Kate opened her mouth and closed it. She put on glasses to read the card Ihad handed her, which she had been too polite to look at while I was talking. Now she gazed at meover her glasses, which gave her the look of a psychoanalyst I'd once goneto, another thin dame, who had knitted throughout our sessions when shewasn't peering at me over her spectacles. She hadn't helped me at all, andneither had any of the other shrinks I'd been advised to consult."I didn't know anyone played field hockey anymore," Kate said. "We used toplay it in school; I was a wing–much smacking of ankles with sticks.""Not if it's played properly," I said with dignity."I shall come by one day and watch the team you coach," Kate said."Meanwhile . . .""What am I here for? My usual tasks involve divorce, theft, blackmail,suspicions of commercial cheating. Now I've been hired for a job that's abit beyond my scope; I was hoping to hire you as a consultant, asubcontractor, whatever. Is there a chance you might agree?""There's a chance I might listen. May I venture a guess that your case hasto do with an academic or literary matter?""They said you were a good detective."Kate smiled. "It hardly took detective powers to guess that. Tell me aboutit, and we'll see if I think I can help. Won't you sit down?" she said,waving toward a chair. I had been standing while I made my speeches andhanded her my card. Now I sat."Can't I get you a cold drink?" Kate said. It was late September butreally hot–Indian summer or something. Even though riding a motorbike iscooler than walking, you're still moving through the humidity and heat andlikely to be sweating upon arrival. Not that a taxi would have been muchbetter; they aren't really air-conditioned whatever they claim. The subwaycars are cool enough, but the stations are Turkish baths."A glass of cold water would be welcome," I said. I seemed to take a lotof time deciding what to say to her. She left the room to fetch my drink,and I took the opportunity to look around. I'm not much interested infurniture as a rule; I only notice it when it concerns some problem I'mtrying to figure out. I'm good at noticing; any half-decent detective hasto be good at noticing, but I don't sit around describing everything to myself the way they seem to do in books. This room was appealing, however, cool of course–there was an air conditioner–but also comfortable, as though they'd bought some pretty good furniture a while back and just let it grow old along with them. A bit shabby, I guess it was, but you didn't get thefeeling they were trying to impress anyone with their good taste. This was just a room to sit in.