Quantum Paradox Theory
by Gabi Soleimanipour
There was a large lobster claw sticking out of the wood paneling of the office, about the size of what a Volkswagen would have been if they had been invented yet.
“How long has it been there?” the detective asked, scratching at the thin layer of stubble on his chin in what was probably meant to appear as a professional manner but in reality just made him look as though he had a bad itch.
“Oh, not long,” replied Mr. Gable. “We just got the paneling redone last month. Pity, really.”
“Not the paneling,!” snapped the detective, crumpling his hat between his palms and grumbling disparagingly. “I meant the claw.”
“Oh. Well. Just since yesterday. Nora found it when she was coming up to fetch the tea things, and she was awfully upset, you know, seeing as the paneling had only just-”
“I see,” said the detective, cutting Mr. Gable off and making a note on the back of his hand with a gold fountain pen. Mr. Gable noted this with interest and realised that he had not seen his favorite fountain pen in weeks. Surely the pen the detective was currently using to scrawl across his grimy skin could not be the same one. Surely not. After all, it was perfectly reasonable to assume that there was more than one pen in the world with a golden cap and the initials “M.G” engraved into the barrel. Mr. Gable tried to ignore the small pen-shaped movements in the corner of his field of vision and focus on the lobster claw instead.
“Do you, er, know how it might’ve gotten there?” he asked.
“No,” the detective said flatly.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite positive.”
“Oh.” Mr. Gable’s heart sank along with his shoulders. “I thought you might.”
“No,” repeated the detective. “But my associate will.” He snapped his fingers and a ferret scuttled in through the open door and onto the desk. Mr. Gable looked at it incredulously.
“Is that ferret wearing a bow tie?”
“It’s a marmoset, actually,” corrected the detective, putting the pen away in his breast pocket - yes, Mr. Gable thought, it did look an awful lot like his fountain pen - “And yes, he is.”
“I see.”
The ferret - marmoset, Mr. Gable corrected himself - crawled across the desk and upset the jar of ink onto the blotting paper while Mr. Gable wrung his hands in anxiety. When the furry creature reached the claw it sniffed it, hissed, and began to gnaw ferociously on the shell. The detective sighed.
“I tried to train him, but it doesn’t seem to be working. He did this the last time too.”
“Oh, you bring your pets with you on cases regularly?” asked Mr. Gable with just the slightest hint of disdain. He was now quite certain that the detective had been using his pen and was trying to figure out a way of bringing the subject up without seeming indelicate, if one could seem indelicate when inquiring after the presumed theft of one’s own possessions.
“No. What, you think you’re the only person with an infestation of giant crustaceans in the wall of your office?”
Mr. Gable was slightly taken aback. “Er. No. But I thought you said you didn’t know how it had gotten there.”
“I don’t. I just know that you’re not the only one with this problem.”
“Oh.”
“Everyone just loves to think they’re special,” the detective sighed. “Loves to think that their case is the first of its kind, a real original worthy of being turned into one of those cheap Conan-Doyle rip-offs. But they never are and so it all goes to waste.”
“That’s a good bit there,” commented Mr. Gable. “You should put that in your memoirs.”
“Won’t be having any bloody memoirs,” said the detective snidely. “I’ll be dead long before I’ll get around to writing bloody memoirs like some pompous prat, but maybe you’d like to write them for me?”
“No,” sniffed Mr. Gable, ignoring the insult. “That will be quite all right.” He paused. “Now about this claw-”
“Oh yes, you’ll just have to do what I had the girl at the other place do.”
“And what’s that?”
“Bust up the paneling, and hope your wife likes shellfish.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Gable.
“You sound disappointed.”
“Well, I was rather hoping you would have a more . . . a more spectacular solution.” The detective rolled his eyes and began writing on the back of his hand again. Mr. Gable craned his neck, trying to make it seem as though he was trying to look at what the detective was writing rather than at the pen. It was quite a nice pen, he thought, all done up with gold and it even had the detective’s initials on it and everything - and they had to be the detective’s initials, hadn’t they, because surely there was more than one man in the world with the initials “M. G”. and Mr. Gable couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to use a pen that had the wrong initials on it.
“If detectives were meant to be spectacular,” said the detective, putting the pen away again, “They would all give up their jobs and join a circus act. This is a practical solution. If you want spectacular, then there’s a professor over at Oxford who deals in quantum paradox theory and he’ll be happy to help you out.”
“What’s that?” asked Mr. Gable.
“Hell if I know. Pretty sure the summary of the paper mentioned lobsters, though,” said the detective, walking around to the other side of the desk and wrestling the marmoset’s jaws free of the lobster claw.
“What do lobsters have to do with quantum paradox theory?”
“Do I look like a bloody Oxford professor to you?”
“No. You might look like a detective,” began Mr. Gable, beginning to feel quite irritated indeed, “if you didn’t look so much like a man who steals other men’s pens and uses them to write notes on the back of his hand!”
Slowly, calmly, the detective pulled the pen - my pen, Mr. Gable thought scandalously - out of his pocket and made a note of that on his hand. “Are there any other comments you would like to make for the record?” he said. The marmoset had begun to gnaw on his ear, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“That’s not a bloody record, it’s your hand!” screeched Mr. Gable. “Are you even a real detective? Nobody ever picked up at Scotland Yard when I called and so I assumed they hadn’t got my message, but here you are with that ferret-”
“Marmoset,” the detective corrected.
“-whatever it is, and you haven’t told me anything at all!”
The detective smiled. “I never said I was a detective, either.”
“But you . . . I don’t . . . what about my pen?”
“The professors at Oxford will be sure to send you compensation for any and all damages caused during the course of this experiment,” the not-actually-a-detective assured Mr. Gable.
“It’s not a damage, it’s my bloody pen! Which you took!” was all he could say in reply. The not-detective took the pen out of his pocket a final time and looked at it curiously. After several seconds, he shrugged.
“If you say so,” he said, and set the fountain pen down on the desk while Mr. Gable looked on smugly. “Good day, Mr. Gable,” he said, and left the room with a swish of his trenchcoat. The marmoset perched on his shoulder hissed at Mr. Gable as the door swung shut.
“Bloody scientists,” muttered Mr. Gable, picking up the pen and pulling open a drawer on the side of his desk. “Bloody detectives, bloody-” He stopped, his hand poised in mid-air. There, in his desk drawer, was his pen, the same as always.
“Oh,” he said.
Behind the paneling, the lobsters scratched at the wood. Their claws made the sound of paradoxes.
by Gabi Soleimanipour
There was a large lobster claw sticking out of the wood paneling of the office, about the size of what a Volkswagen would have been if they had been invented yet.
“How long has it been there?” the detective asked, scratching at the thin layer of stubble on his chin in what was probably meant to appear as a professional manner but in reality just made him look as though he had a bad itch.
“Oh, not long,” replied Mr. Gable. “We just got the paneling redone last month. Pity, really.”
“Not the paneling,!” snapped the detective, crumpling his hat between his palms and grumbling disparagingly. “I meant the claw.”
“Oh. Well. Just since yesterday. Nora found it when she was coming up to fetch the tea things, and she was awfully upset, you know, seeing as the paneling had only just-”
“I see,” said the detective, cutting Mr. Gable off and making a note on the back of his hand with a gold fountain pen. Mr. Gable noted this with interest and realised that he had not seen his favorite fountain pen in weeks. Surely the pen the detective was currently using to scrawl across his grimy skin could not be the same one. Surely not. After all, it was perfectly reasonable to assume that there was more than one pen in the world with a golden cap and the initials “M.G” engraved into the barrel. Mr. Gable tried to ignore the small pen-shaped movements in the corner of his field of vision and focus on the lobster claw instead.
“Do you, er, know how it might’ve gotten there?” he asked.
“No,” the detective said flatly.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite positive.”
“Oh.” Mr. Gable’s heart sank along with his shoulders. “I thought you might.”
“No,” repeated the detective. “But my associate will.” He snapped his fingers and a ferret scuttled in through the open door and onto the desk. Mr. Gable looked at it incredulously.
“Is that ferret wearing a bow tie?”
“It’s a marmoset, actually,” corrected the detective, putting the pen away in his breast pocket - yes, Mr. Gable thought, it did look an awful lot like his fountain pen - “And yes, he is.”
“I see.”
The ferret - marmoset, Mr. Gable corrected himself - crawled across the desk and upset the jar of ink onto the blotting paper while Mr. Gable wrung his hands in anxiety. When the furry creature reached the claw it sniffed it, hissed, and began to gnaw ferociously on the shell. The detective sighed.
“I tried to train him, but it doesn’t seem to be working. He did this the last time too.”
“Oh, you bring your pets with you on cases regularly?” asked Mr. Gable with just the slightest hint of disdain. He was now quite certain that the detective had been using his pen and was trying to figure out a way of bringing the subject up without seeming indelicate, if one could seem indelicate when inquiring after the presumed theft of one’s own possessions.
“No. What, you think you’re the only person with an infestation of giant crustaceans in the wall of your office?”
Mr. Gable was slightly taken aback. “Er. No. But I thought you said you didn’t know how it had gotten there.”
“I don’t. I just know that you’re not the only one with this problem.”
“Oh.”
“Everyone just loves to think they’re special,” the detective sighed. “Loves to think that their case is the first of its kind, a real original worthy of being turned into one of those cheap Conan-Doyle rip-offs. But they never are and so it all goes to waste.”
“That’s a good bit there,” commented Mr. Gable. “You should put that in your memoirs.”
“Won’t be having any bloody memoirs,” said the detective snidely. “I’ll be dead long before I’ll get around to writing bloody memoirs like some pompous prat, but maybe you’d like to write them for me?”
“No,” sniffed Mr. Gable, ignoring the insult. “That will be quite all right.” He paused. “Now about this claw-”
“Oh yes, you’ll just have to do what I had the girl at the other place do.”
“And what’s that?”
“Bust up the paneling, and hope your wife likes shellfish.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Gable.
“You sound disappointed.”
“Well, I was rather hoping you would have a more . . . a more spectacular solution.” The detective rolled his eyes and began writing on the back of his hand again. Mr. Gable craned his neck, trying to make it seem as though he was trying to look at what the detective was writing rather than at the pen. It was quite a nice pen, he thought, all done up with gold and it even had the detective’s initials on it and everything - and they had to be the detective’s initials, hadn’t they, because surely there was more than one man in the world with the initials “M. G”. and Mr. Gable couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to use a pen that had the wrong initials on it.
“If detectives were meant to be spectacular,” said the detective, putting the pen away again, “They would all give up their jobs and join a circus act. This is a practical solution. If you want spectacular, then there’s a professor over at Oxford who deals in quantum paradox theory and he’ll be happy to help you out.”
“What’s that?” asked Mr. Gable.
“Hell if I know. Pretty sure the summary of the paper mentioned lobsters, though,” said the detective, walking around to the other side of the desk and wrestling the marmoset’s jaws free of the lobster claw.
“What do lobsters have to do with quantum paradox theory?”
“Do I look like a bloody Oxford professor to you?”
“No. You might look like a detective,” began Mr. Gable, beginning to feel quite irritated indeed, “if you didn’t look so much like a man who steals other men’s pens and uses them to write notes on the back of his hand!”
Slowly, calmly, the detective pulled the pen - my pen, Mr. Gable thought scandalously - out of his pocket and made a note of that on his hand. “Are there any other comments you would like to make for the record?” he said. The marmoset had begun to gnaw on his ear, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“That’s not a bloody record, it’s your hand!” screeched Mr. Gable. “Are you even a real detective? Nobody ever picked up at Scotland Yard when I called and so I assumed they hadn’t got my message, but here you are with that ferret-”
“Marmoset,” the detective corrected.
“-whatever it is, and you haven’t told me anything at all!”
The detective smiled. “I never said I was a detective, either.”
“But you . . . I don’t . . . what about my pen?”
“The professors at Oxford will be sure to send you compensation for any and all damages caused during the course of this experiment,” the not-actually-a-detective assured Mr. Gable.
“It’s not a damage, it’s my bloody pen! Which you took!” was all he could say in reply. The not-detective took the pen out of his pocket a final time and looked at it curiously. After several seconds, he shrugged.
“If you say so,” he said, and set the fountain pen down on the desk while Mr. Gable looked on smugly. “Good day, Mr. Gable,” he said, and left the room with a swish of his trenchcoat. The marmoset perched on his shoulder hissed at Mr. Gable as the door swung shut.
“Bloody scientists,” muttered Mr. Gable, picking up the pen and pulling open a drawer on the side of his desk. “Bloody detectives, bloody-” He stopped, his hand poised in mid-air. There, in his desk drawer, was his pen, the same as always.
“Oh,” he said.
Behind the paneling, the lobsters scratched at the wood. Their claws made the sound of paradoxes.