Copper Lincoln, Robot Detective Pt 2

The doorbell’s last chords hung in the air as though they’d been played on fine crystal. Hell, as far as I knew, they had been. The family that owned the patent on responsometers probably eats from platinum plates and drops trou over golden commodes. The door swung open just as the last echo of the clarion tones faded away and revealed the butler. It was a pretty theatrical entrance for the man who manages somebody else’s kitchen and answers somebody else’s door, but I have the color and shine of a newly minted penny so who am I to judge? He was an older gent and had probably served the previous master of the household unless Junior had a thing for antiques. His clothing was immaculately tailored, pressed smartly, and made me decide I needed to change my racket. Either the employer bought the suit or the butler made more money in a month than I’d see in a year. I’d never owned a suit that looked that good on me; hell, I’d never owned a suit that looked that good on the hanger. The old guy’s back was razor-straight, his chin stuck out, and his green eyes were cold and hard like emeralds even behind the rheumy film of age. He looked at me with such obvious distaste that, even though I had four inches on the guy easy, I felt like a little present the dog had left on an expensive rug. He looked down on me, knew it was his responsibility to deal with me, but wasn’t sure he should soil his gloves on me. After a few seconds of this, I got bored and decided to have some fun with him.

“Is the lady of the house in? I represent Extreme-inators, Exterminators to the Extreme, and I want to tell her about our new line of pest removal equipment.” I fed him the straight line so hard I hoped he'd choke on it.

“Sir?” and a raised eyebrow was all I got for my trouble. To be fair, for this Joe that single syllable was probably a real zinger.

“Jeez, seriously?” I asked, a slight edge to my voice. “Fine. Copper Lincoln, private investigator, to see Mr. Kanigher. His secretary called me, a Ms. Kwest, and respectfully requested my presence,” I paused and checked my chronometer for effect even though I’ve got a built in atomic clock, “five minutes ago. If I’d known I was going to have to navigate Checkpoint Charlie at the door, I would have shown up earlier and packed a lunch.”

Somehow, that was the open sesame.

“This way sir,” the butler said with zero trace of irony, turned on his heel and gestured me in. I entered and took off my hat, reaching it back to him without looking and letting it go. I heard the door slam as he tried, and failed, to close it smoothly and catch my hat at the same time. Childish, sure, but damned satisfying.

I took a moment to survey the foyer, and I choose my verb carefully there. It would take a couple total stations and a commando squad of surveyors if somebody wanted to turn the hall into a nice neighborhood addition. The place had obviously been redecorated since the house was built because the exterior still looked the same as when Walt laid the first marble slabs for the place. In here, thought, it was all chrome and neon with the floor done up in shimmering designs that would reflect the electric-blue light in ways some swishy fella must have thought were particularly interesting. In the last few years somebody had rediscovered science fiction movies from the 1980s and somehow, God only knows how, that look had become the hotness for interior decorating. Since I had been designed with a decidedly retro look even for a few hundred years ago, this kind of thing made my oculars hurt. Luckily for my optics, I didn’t spend much time in the homes of anybody who could afford to make their house this ugly.

Even though I hated every square inch of the foyer, I turned my head over my shoulder toward Jeeves (who had annoyingly resettled himself as though my hat shenanigans had never happened) and whistled appreciatively at the hallway just because I knew it would annoy him.

“Nice pile of bricks,” I said, doing my best to route the statement around my irony clusters.

“Personally, I can’t stand it,” a feminine voice said from above me. “Thank goodness Mr. Kanigher isn’t hiring you for your aesthetic sense, Mr. Lincoln.”

I looked up and caught my first glimpse of Ms. Kwest, the secretary, as she came down the staircase. I wasn’t always a modicum of self control when it came to members of the opposite sex, robotic or human, but I like to think I’ve grown up a little bit since my younger days. Even so, looking at her caused another low whistle of appreciation, no rerouting past irony clusters necessary. I thought I had kept it quiet, but she dashed that hope immediately.

“Did you say something, Mr. Lincoln?” she asked, a lilting tease to her voice.

“Still just admiring the, um, architecture, Ms. Kwest.”

She tilted her head to the side winsomely and there was an amused twinkle in her oculars. That whistle might not have been a mistake after all.